


Unmasked

by mickie



Series: The Stranger [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mycroft is a mess, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Sherlock is a good brother, jimcroft - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-05-16 08:30:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 44,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14807870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/pseuds/mickie
Summary: Mycroft returns to London and has to deal with the aftermath of his kidnapping, his family, attempts on his life, and a growing fascination with Viktor, whom he can't seem to forget.This story is now complete.





	1. Breakfast with Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



> This story is the sequel to [Masquerade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13294803/chapters/30425013), written for the 4 prompt challenge using the prompts: kidnapping, mistaken identity, drunk/drugged shenanigans, and weddings. It won't make much sense if you haven't read that story first.
> 
> Anytime a character is speaking or texting in a foreign language, I use the symbols { and } inside the quotes or underlined.
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy the story.

**Breakfast with Sherlock**

Mycroft was staring at his computer screen. The right hand side of the left column of the foreign investments in London-based companies report created an intriguing pattern. The left side of the right column did as well, he’d noted a few minutes or so ago, although they didn’t align perfectly with each other. He idly wondered if he were to shift a few lines, whether that would alter the report significantly or if he could somehow align the patterns while leaving the report intelligible.

A voice intruded upon his thoughts. Someone was calling him. Bother. “Mycroft!” It was Sherlock. He briefly remembered that his brother had not left his side since he’d returned to England the previous day and, while comforting, it was bit annoying. Sherlock had forced his way into the debriefing room and eventually cut the meeting short because no matter how forcefully the psychologists and officials tried to push him and discern otherwise, Mycroft hadn’t had much to say other than the story he’d given.

In truth, Mycroft did have nothing else to say. He hadn’t been compromised and he hadn’t revealed any information about the _British_ government. The minor detail about being accidentally kidnapped versus meeting a friend changed nothing in the grand scheme of the intelligence world and Mycroft was never revealing that fact. It would only bring him more hassles and there would be no gain.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock’s voice stopped his musings this time. “What are you doing?” 

Mycroft turned to look at his beloved little brother who seemed somewhat irate at the moment. He made sure his expression was bland when he replied, “I’m looking over a report. What are you doing?” He eyed Sherlock’s laptop pointedly.

“I was reviewing emails, nothing exciting,” Sherlock said while closing his laptop. “I’ve also been watching you stare at the same screen for forty-eight minutes and twenty-one seconds, move one line up and down several times, tap your lips three times as though you are pondering the fate of the universe, and you’ve let your tea get cold.”

Sighing, Mycroft looked down at his tea with dismay. “Oh, dear, I suppose I have, haven’t I?”

Sherlock rose. “I’ll get that for you,” he grumbled and then picked up Mycroft’s cup and put it in the microwave.

Mycroft watched his brother silently. He sensed that Sherlock was worried about him and wished that he could somehow snap his fingers and return things to the way that they had been a week prior. Although he sensed that something fundamental within him had changed and nothing would ever return to the way it had been before. Sherlock set the reheated tea down next to him and then sat across from his desk instead of back on the couch. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Mycroft replied and then smiled blandly again. “This report is rather tedious, written by an inane little analyst who would fare better feeding pigeons in the park, and I need to draw coherent conclusions from it before the meeting tomorrow morning.”

“I see.”

Mycroft easily determined that Sherlock wasn’t convinced. “I’ll admit that I’m still a bit annoyed and unnerved by the ridiculous debriefing yesterday and, obviously, by the events at the embassy, but I’m sure it will pass.”

Sherlock stared at him unflinchingly and then shook his head. “No.”

Mycroft felt an instant of fear that Sherlock somehow knew or could discern the truth but he quickly stifled it and smiled in his most condescending way. “Pardon?”

“No, you’re lying, Mycroft,” Sherlock stated with more conviction and strength than Mycroft had ever heard Sherlock speak except when he was on a case and had reached the correct conclusion.

Mycroft forced himself to hold steady. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bollocks,” Sherlock said. “There is something very wrong and you’re keeping it from everyone, except me, because not only can I read everyone but I can certainly read _you_ since you’re failing miserably at pretending that everything is fine. Did you have breakfast this morning, by the way?”

“No,” Mycroft mumbled and sipped his tea in an attempt to buy himself a little time to gather his composure.

“Did you sleep?”

Mycroft sighed and spoke using a placid tone, “I _am_ trying to analyze this report and I’m sure I’d get through it faster without constant interruptions.”

“Stop prevaricating.”

Mycroft sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not.”

“Did you have breakfast?”

Mycroft’s thoughts flew to the last meal that he’d actually had: a French omelet with shiitake mushrooms, Gruyere cheese, and tarragon served with oven potatoes. He remembered being held and comforted and reminisced that feeling knowing that there was a very certain possibility that he’d never feel that way again.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock’s voice jarred his thoughts.

Mycroft blinked and then replied hastily, “What? How can I help you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock rose and closed Mycroft’s computer. “Did. You. Eat?” he asked enunciating each word.

Mycroft sensed there was no escaping the unstoppable force known as his brother on a case and he didn’t enjoy being the subject of that scrutiny. “No, I did not,” he admitted. “I was fatigued from the debriefing yesterday, as you well know. I stopped at the store to pick up a box of ginger spice biscuits and had a few of those but then I fell asleep.”

“Interesting.”

“I overslept this morning so did not have time for anything other than tea.”

“We’re going to get something to eat,” Sherlock said with more determination than Mycroft had expected. “Tell me what you want or you will be eating whatever I choose.”

Mycroft felt panic and quickly reached for his cup of tea. He was both reassured at seeing Sherlock so in control and capable and also terrified at how out of control he felt. He forced himself to focus on the topic of food and found that he couldn’t remember what it was that he’d normally have for lunch. His mind latched onto the first thing he could think of. “Omelets,” he said. “I think I would like an omelet, preferably a French omelet with shiitake mushrooms and Gruyere cheese, and tarragon, that makes it French, you know, with oven potatoes.” Sherlock stared at him as though he’d lost his mind. “I’ll settle for any omelet though.”

*~*~*

They found a small cafe in Soho that served all day breakfast. The omelet that Mycroft wanted wasn’t on the menu, but the staff had readily agreed to the request. It wasn’t as good as the one Viktor had prepared but it was close enough that Mycroft still found it comforting. Sherlock had ordered Eggs Benedict for himself and then a plate of Mycroft’s usual favorite: Nutella banana hazelnut pancakes for them to share. Mycroft had wanted to insist on cinnamon pancakes but felt that it might arouse suspicion.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Sherlock said gently.

“I’m not sure what you’re looking for, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, still hoping to convince his brother that everything was mostly fine.

“I don’t believe that story that you told the others for an instant,” Sherlock stated.

Mycroft sighed. “It’s just easier if you don’t know,” he said quietly. “The end result is the same. I wasn’t compromised and British affairs were not endangered.”

“That’s not what I care about,” Sherlock said. “You, Mycroft Holmes, are _definitely_ , not fine.”

“I am,” Mycroft argued.

“We both know that you’re not,” Sherlock countered. “I know you’re lying about what happened and I won’t stop until you tell me.” Mycroft frowned. “If this continues and you don’t clarify the matter, I will notify Lady Smallwood and the others of my concerns.”

Mycroft inhaled sharply. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Sherlock insisted but then softened his tone. “But I’m more worried about you. I’m worried that you were hurt or that something happened and you need something… different.”

Mycroft smiled tenderly at Sherlock. On his return, he’d been not only impressed with Sherlock’s focus and ability to take control of situations on a larger scale than previously, but he also showed more maturity and a few subtle signs of caring. Even though Mycroft had aggressively fought to remove that emotion from all their lives, now things seemed different and he appreciated it. “Let me help you with this,” Sherlock added.

Those words were so similar to ones he’d heard just two days prior and had completely upended his life. “Very well,” he said. “But this absolutely must go no further.” Sherlock nodded. “As you guessed, I didn’t spend time with an old friend. I don’t even know that man although he sounds very interesting and I’ve already made a note to make his acquaintance. I’ve been told he has a spectacular collection of insects embedded in amber.”

“Insects…” Sherlock rolled his eyes before taking another bite of his breakfast. 

Mycroft sipped his tea and then continued. “The short of it all is that I was accidentally kidnapped,” he said.

“How, exactly, is one _accidentally_ kidnapped?” Concern filled Sherlock’s voice.

“Well, my kidnapper was apparently drugged,” Mycroft explained. “I have no idea if the effects were exacerbated by alcohol but that caused my identity to be mistaken at a masked ball. It seems that I vaguely resemble some minor embassy staffer who skipped out on his own wedding and retribution had been called by the aggrieved bride’s family.”

Sherlock stared at Mycroft incredulously. “Do you expect me to believe that?” He scanned Mycroft’s features looking for tells and then shook his head. “It’s true. Really, Mycroft, perhaps you should take up field work. It might be safer than embassy parties.”

Mycroft chuckled. “It would appear so.”

“But what happened after that? You clearly were unhurt.”

“No, I was not hurt at all,” Mycroft said. “I… I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Keep going and I’ll help straighten it out.”

“It probably would not have ended so well for me, what with effectively being disposable and a dangerous loose end,” Mycroft said and Sherlock again nodded with understanding. “I had a panic attack, quite a serious one, and the kidnapper actually helped me get through it.” He saw the disbelief written across Sherlock’s face. “He gets them as well and he… understood.”

“So, you’re telling me that you bonded over panic attacks and then he just let you go?”

“Sort of. It was quite an awful panic attack. The man was kind and he talked me through it,” Mycroft said softly, remembering Viktor’s caring and concern for him. “I don’t really understand why. I can easily imagine the roles being reversed and how I would treat someone, how I have treated people, and… it frightens me. I would have given certain, callous orders without thinking about it while this person, this kidnapper, who operates outside the law… did nothing but show kindness and caring.”

Sherlock looked at him sharply. “Is that what’s gotten to you?”

“That’s part of it; it’s made me reconsider a lot of the standard government procedures,” Mycroft admitted. “And I feel tinges of guilt over actions I’ve taken in the past. It could have easily been replayed and things gone not so well for me.”

“The past is the past, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “You can’t change it. You can only reevaluate and then move forward accordingly.”

“I know but I’m still struggling to reorganize it all.” Mycroft sighed. 

“Go on.”

“They… I was kept blindfolded and mostly restrained all the time so I didn’t see anything. Ostensibly I was no danger but they were still taking a risk letting me live and letting me go.”

Sherlock took another bite of his food. “They?”

“The kidnapper had at least one associate.”

“I suppose that’s expected.”

“The one that was around most often, Sergei, I believe his name was, really wanted to put a bullet in me, I think,” Mycroft said.

“It would have been a wise precaution but I’m happy that he didn’t.”

Mycroft nodded. “I am as well,” he said. “I was eventually released after giving the expected promise of ‘I know nothing and I won’t investigate’.”

“How much can you reconstruct?” Sherlock asked.

“Considering my friendship with the ambassador and his general indebtedness to the British government after everything that occurred,” Mycroft said. “I’m certain that I could uncover identities in half a day or less.”

“But you aren’t going to,” Sherlock noted.

“No, I have no need to do so,” Mycroft said and tried to make his explanation sound legitimate. “I accidentally became involved in a petty situation that isn’t a concern to the British government and inadvertently saved my life. I can offer a small courtesy in return.”

Sherlock pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I understand,” he said. “And I completely agree on all counts.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock smirked. “Although I do want to discover the details as a purely intellectual exercise.”

Mycroft smiled guiltily. “I do as well.”

“I do have one question,” Sherlock said. “Why did you have a panic attack? You’re always in control. What caused it?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to answer dismissively but was suddenly overcome with memories of what had happened to him as a child, his desperate, frantic need to protect Sherlock, the overwhelming helpless feeling of powerlessness, the physical pain and utter terror of what kept happened to him, and Viktor’s compassion. He started trembling and felt his control slipping. Leaning against the side of the booth, he felt tears well in his eyes and fought against the urge to wrap his arms around himself start sobbing. He vaguely heard Sherlock saying something but the words didn’t make sense.

Mycroft felt pressure against his other side and someone holding him against the side of the booth. The pressure felt good and his body relaxed into it as his mind fought for control. Slowly he pushed the panic aside and slowed his breathing. Sherlock simply stayed at his side and Mycroft found himself bursting with adoration for his younger brother. “Thank you,” he finally whispered.

“What is this?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft turned and looked at his brother. He saw concern and fear reflected in Sherlock’s eyes but also a strength and that made him smile. Any price that he’d had to pay to protect Sherlock had been worth it. He took a deep breath and spoke truthfully, “I’m not comfortable talking about it right now but know that there is nothing immediate that needs… attention.”

Sherlock seemed perplexed. “This seems, serious, important.”

Mycroft smiled and fought off the urge to hug his younger brother. “It is but it’s all old,” he said. “It just came up now but none of it is pertinent. I’ll be fine.”

“Will you tell me? I feel that I should know.”

“Not right now,” Mycroft said. “I don’t want to burden you and before you say that it’s not a burden, it’s really that I’m simply not ready.”

“Promise me that you’ll tell me when you are,” Sherlock requested.

Mycroft wanted to cry at the sincerity and affection he saw in his brother’s eyes. It was almost similar to what he’d felt from Viktor and his subconscious screamed with a need for it. He was so incredibly proud of Sherlock and impressed at the amazing person that his brother had become. “I will,” he said. “When I’m ready; that’s a promise.”

“Good,” Sherlock said as he rose and went back to his seat. “And you’re taking the rest of the day off. I will manage and I promise to properly terrorize the rest of the British government in your stead…”


	2. A Brief Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has a half day off and makes omelets.

**A Brief Respite**

Sherlock looked up from Mycroft’s computer as he heard John’s footsteps. He’d organized all the financial reports that Mycroft would need for the mid-morning meeting tomorrow and then reviewed the analyses that Anthea had provided him regarding the attack on the German embassy. Under the guise of Mycroft, he’d sent a _polite_ request to the German ambassador for the unredacted guest list.

“Sherlock?” John said, opening the door to the office.

“John,” Sherlock said and observed his friend. “I take it you had a difficult shift at the clinic.”

John’s eyes widened and he looked perplexed for a moment but then shook it off and smiled fondly at his friend. “Yes, of course I did,” he said. “Tell me.”

“On your shirt, there’s a spot of sweet chili and soy sauce, which you like to mix, when you stop at The Fable and get shrimp lollipops and a Rekorderlig Strawberry & Lime.” Sherlock smirked. “You only do that if you’ve had a bad day at work and don’t feel like heading home immediately.”

John huffed. “Or when we’re on a case,” he said. “Yeah, rough day. But, uhhh, how are you? Where’s Mycroft? Is he okay?”

“I’m frustrated with all this,” Sherlock answered and indicated Mycroft’s computer and paperwork. “Mycroft is currently at home and I assume that he is fine. _Now_.”

“That sounds a bit not good,” John noted. 

“It’s not. His replies to my queries have been efficient at best and dismissive at worst.”

“What happened? It’s not like him to take a day off even after all the adventures he’s had.” John paused. “Never mind that. He definitely _wouldn’t_ take a day especially after all that.”

“I sent him home,” Sherlock said quietly. He shut Mycroft’s computer and then steepled his fingers. “He hadn’t eaten dinner the previous evening or breakfast today,” John gasped. “Exactly. I forced him to have breakfast with me.”

“There is definitely something wrong in the universe when _you’re_ the one forcing someone to eat.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He was very particular about his order and it wasn’t any of his customary favorites.”

“I’d say that’s bizarre,” John said. “He’s usually like clockwork about food, or anything else in his life, really.” John tipped his head to one side. “You’re worried about him.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Obviously it has to do with happened.” He purposefully didn’t tell John about the kidnapping because of the potential liability to Mycroft if that got out.

“Maybe he’s decided to live it up after having such a close call in Russia,” John suggested.

“No.” Sherlock shook his head and then paused to consider whether he should tell John what had happened at the cafe. That seemed safe and John was a doctor. He would understand. “I’m trusting you with this. I’m not sure Mycroft would want any of it getting out.”

“Of course.”

“He…” Sherlock sighed. “He had something of a breakdown while we were eating.” John’s jaw dropped. “Yes.”

“Mycroft, your brother, the same Mycroft we both know, had a breakdown,” John repeated.

“Somewhat. He got lost in his thoughts,” Sherlock said. “No, more like in his memories. It wasn’t like when he analyzes things in his mind palace.”

“That’s... different.”

“It didn’t seem intentional… and that is very troubling,” Sherlock said deliberately. “Plus, he was trembling and it looked like he was about to cry.”

John took a deep breath. “That sounds somewhat like a PTSD episode rather than symptoms of a concussion, I would say, but I’d have to see him to diagnose.” Sherlock nodded. “It sounds like a smaller version of what I used to go through after the war. Did anything else happen in Russia other than playing with bugs and rocks with his friend and being completely safe except for bumping his head which was medically cleared yesterday?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “I don’t think it was only what happened at the embassy although considering how violently his colleagues died, I can imagine that upsetting him somewhat.” He tipped his head to one side. “Well as much as anything upsets him.”

“Which is nothing at all, usually,” John said.

“Exactly,” Sherlock said. “I think it tapped into something older, something from his past because I don’t recall anything traumatic happening. Ever.”

“Maybe something from before you were old enough to remember?”

“I would have heard about it or found out,” Sherlock said firmly. “Our upbringing was picture-perfect. As I said: this is troubling.” He sighed again. “I have no idea how to help him if it happens again.”

“I would say support him as best you can for now and subtly steer him towards therapy or a doctor or even me if it continues,” John suggested. “It may not. Depending on what it is, exactly, it may fade naturally. Or, considering that this is Mycroft, he may organize and compartmentalize it into oblivion.”

“True.”

John stared at him for a long moment. “You’re really struggling with this.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” John said. “It bothers you.”

“A little.”

“He’s been solid, your rock, your anchor, since you were born,” John pointed out. Sherlock looked away. “He’s been _Mycroft_ for all your life and this has to be unsettling.”

“I’m worried for him,” Sherlock said slowly. “And yes, that, too.”

John nodded. “Don’t forget to take care of yourself in all this. You won’t be any good to him if you don’t.”

“I know.”

“Let me help you finish up and then let’s get something to eat…”

*~*~*

( _the following morning_ )  
Smiling smugly, Mycroft placed the package of sugared gingerbread men, Crimean cybercriminals it seemed, into his attaché case along with his thermos of chocolate chai tea. Having the afternoon off the previous day had thoroughly refreshed him. He’d gone grocery shopping and currently had enough eggs, mushrooms, vegetables, meats, cheeses, and herbs to make not only French omelets but a vast array of _alumetes_ *. 

He’d also acquired a fairly respectable size bag of every type of potato the store had so that he could try to replicate Sergei’s oven potatoes. The pièce de résistance had been buying every single package of gingerbread men that the store had to offer as well as finding a tea shop and purchasing their finest chocolate chai. Then he’d rested.

In the evening Mycroft had finally started recuperating both physically and mentally. Sherlock had sent a few messages with minor official questions as well as inquiries as to his well-being and he’d promptly dispatched all of those. His evening meal had been a fairly close replica of what he’d eaten in St. Petersburg and earlier that day with Sherlock. He’d also taken the time to label each of the sixty-eight packages of gingerbread men with their nation of origin and the particular crime of which they’d been convicted. An entire package had then been executed.

Later that evening, when he felt refreshed, he’d reviewed some of his notes for that morning’s meeting and quickly glanced at Sherlock’s work of the past few days. It was brilliant and required no amendments. He made a mental note to not only thank his little brother for all the work he’d done during his absence but to find a special way to show his appreciation. His last endeavor before sleep was to review the circumstances that had sent _him_ to St. Petersburg instead of a field agent. Lord Pyotte certainly seemed suspicious.

Before falling asleep, safe in his bed and wrapped in sheets and blankets, he’d tried to imagine what Viktor looked like. It frustrated Mycroft that he had no inkling whatsoever but he’d reminded himself that he’d promised not to make any inquiries. Remembering the feel of Viktor holding him, the pressure of each of the man’s fingers against him, the rise and fall of his breathing, and the sheer comfort of being held by the smaller man had soothed and grounded him. For the first time in a very long while, he’d felt unencumbered and sleep had come easily.

*~*~*

“Want some lunch, boss?” Sebastian asked. Jim looked up from his computer with some annoyance. “Don’t look at me like that. You skipped breakfast and you’ve been up since last night.”

“Daddy’s been a bit bizzyyyyy, Seb,” Jim sang out. “Two new clients in Russia, a big project in the New York, hunting down the CIA agent who drugged me, and untangling the worsening mess that Mycroft Holmes seems to have walked into.” 

“Just like the old days?”

“Yes!!”

“You’ll have it all fixed up in…”

“Thirty seven minutes.”

“I’ll get some Thai from the place down the street.”

*~*~*

“Ready for the defense budget allocations meeting, sir?” Anthea asked as Mycroft walked out of his office.

“Yes,” he replied even though he wasn’t quite sure that he wanted to attend. This was to have been the follow up to the meeting in St. Petersburg and now there was little to discuss except to fine tune Britain’s position and intentions. And fend off tedious inquiries as to his health. Mycroft could have handled the process himself in half the time but the Lords had insisted. “I have snacks and my own tea. I should survive admirably.”

“They usually have tea already prepared there,” Anthea replied flaty.

“But not chocolate chai, my dear,” he said. She seemed confused at his reply. “Sometimes that is the only thing that will do in certain prickly situations. And this is one of them.”

Anthea nodded. “Of course, sir,” she said. “I’ll have the reports for tomorrow’s meetings ready when you get back as well as those for a case that Sherlock mentioned that he was interested in and the defense contractors liaison analyses that you requested for later today.”

“Perfect,” Mycroft said and the smiled at Anthea. He’d never noticed how hard she worked or how competent she truly was. “Would you like the afternoon off?”

“Sir?”

“Would you like the afternoon off?”

Anthea looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. “I… well, thank you, sir, but that’s not necessary right now. I’ll be happy to take one once you’re caught up and everything is back to normal.”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course.” He retrieved the bag of Crimean cybercriminals from his attaché case, showed her the package with his writing, and pulled out two. “Here you are. You deserve a treat and these criminals need to be dispatched properly.”

Anthea’s eyes widened. “Thank you…”

“I recommend drowning them in chocolate chai tea,” Mycroft said and then nodded. “It’s quite satisfying. Although any tea will do the job nicely.”

“Of course, sir.”

*~*~*

With a bland smile plastered to his face, Mycroft politely ignored the useless chit-chat that preceded the meeting. He did make a point of observing Lord Pyotte and surprisingly saw no guile in the man’s behavior. Foppish self-righteousness, entitlement, and snide pettiness, yes; ulterior motives, no. That made determining who was behind the incident at the embassy more difficult but Mycroft was sure that he’d have the issue resolved by evening.

He frowned when his phone beeped with a priority alert. The meeting was about to begin and he didn’t want any distractions or delays. He needed to focus. However, it was probably Sherlock and, after everything that had happened, he would indulge his little brother. While the staff was pouring the tea, he pulled out his phone, read the message, and gasped audibly.

Do NOT drink the ☠ tea @ meeting. ☠ -V


	3. All The King’s Gingerbread Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft attempts to deal with the second assassination attempt on his life. Jim helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that this is still the beginning of only the third day back for Mycroft so he is still very discombobulated.
> 
> A few reminders of who all the people are from Masquerade. Nikolai is the contact Jim met at the embassy party and who drugged him. Charlie Masseria, an Italian mafioso in NYC, is one of Jim's false identities. Wassily Kabakov, a Russian mobster, is another of Jim's false identities.

**All The King’s Gingerbread Men**

( _a short while earlier_ )  
“That was good,” Jim said, closing the now empty container of Phat-Si-Io and swiveling the chair to face the wastebasket. He launched the container in the air and watched it fall two feet shy of the target. “Damn.”

Poking his head from the kitchen, Sebastian eyed the situation while holding a large container of Pun Sip Neung. “You’re still too short to play basketball, boss,” he pointed out cheerfully. Jim hurled a few choice words in Gaelic at him before turning his attention back to the screen. Seb put a dumpling in his mouth and smirked. “And you can’t blame being tired because I’ve seen you hamstring people going on three nights of no sleep.”

“We could see how marvelous I am at it now,” Jim grumbled while Sebastian picked up the wayward container, walked to the furthest point in the room, and easily made the shot without spilling his food. “Show off,” Jim grumbled without looking at him. “Keep that up and I won’t give you this rather nifty assignment.”

“Don’t be mean, you adore me,” Seb said and then placed a sauce laden dumpling in Jim’s mouth. “Plus, if it’s a _me_ -job, you’ll have to get half a dozen other blokes and there still would be no guarantee that it would be done right.”

Jim chose not to reply and finished eating the dumpling. “That was good,” he said. “Why didn’t I get any of those?”

“You didn’t answer me when I asked what you wanted.”

“Hmmmm…” Jim muttered. “These should be a standing order for me.”

“Noted.” Sebastian placed the box on the table next to Jim’s laptop. “You can finish these. I’ll get you a fork.”

“But aren’t they your meal?”

“I ordered six of these eighteen-packs,” Seb replied and headed for the kitchen. “I don’t mind sharing a few.”

Jim’s face scrunched up as he contemplated how many dumplings Sebastian had actually acquired. Shaking his head, he focused on the analysis on the screen and absentmindedly accepted the fork from Sebastian with a quiet thank you. The notification for an incoming priority report popped up in his inbox. Charlie Masseria’s previous day’s business transactions. Planning on a quick skim before he returned to the current project, he opened the email and one item immediately caught his eye. “What?!”

“Anything fun?” Seb mumbled around another dumpling. “I need to play...”

“Why is that there?”

“The dumpling, I’m eating it. You should eat yours too.”

“Quiet, Seb,” Jim grumbled as he brought up new screens showing the exact transactions. “This is serious. Why is that going there?” Seb remained silent. “Why did he buy _that_? I was already concerned about this and now...” He ate a dumpling and then hacked into the British government website.

“Care to explain?”

“May I have some more tea, Seb?”

“Sure, but it may take me awhile to make it,” Seb said walking to the kitchen. “I have to go to the store. You ran out of the chocolate chai and assam melody. All that’s left is the earl grey that you said you didn’t want mornings. The store may take longer because Mrs. Laar’s daughter always wants to chat.”

“Whatever,” Jim said but then stared at the computer. “The bastard,” he muttered. “This is bad.” He grabbed his phone and started texting. “Fuck. I hope I’m in time. Mycroft, you better be paying attention.” Seb huffed and set a mug of tea next to the computer. Jim turned his head to glare at Seb who shrugged and smiled sweetly at him. “One of these days, Moran,” Jim growled. “Sent. I hope it’s not too late or I will be extremely put out.”

“Will there be more people for me to take care of if you aren’t?”

“I suppose…” Jim mumbled and then ate another dumpling. After a few moments, he said, “Your next assignment is in Seattle.”

“I like Seattle.”

“You like any city that has a case or mission.”

“I’m good that way.”

Jim snorted. “So, Nikolai, my contact at the Russian consulate in Seattle, is actually a CIA double agent,” he said and then speared a dumpling with perhaps a bit too much force. “While the thought of Viktor or, more likely Wassily, informing Russian intelligence of the little weasel’s activities is rather pleasurable…” He ate the dumpling.

“It would be entertaining,” Seb said. “I’d take wagers as to what they did and how long it takes. The Russians don’t mess around with this sort of thing.” He paused to reconsider. “Although I would prefer to _personally_ let him know _exactly_ how I feel about drugging with the intention to rape and interrogate a sweet, innocent, adorable, and extremely cute bookkeeper with a test drug.”

“Yes,” Jim said and rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to deny you that pleasure. There are instructions in the files plus everything you’ll need to make it look good.” Nodding, Seb pulled out his cell, which had just beeped. 

“I airdropped the targets to you,” Jim said. “Cyrus McClain is the head of the project and he reviewed all the soft-targets. Bastard officially authorized using force, rape, alcohol, kidnapping, torture, or whatever the agents felt was necessary to test the drug.”

“He’s going to get some TLC.”.

“That would be lovely. Then we have Dr. Ronald Goodman, the one developing the drugs. His notes would come in especially handy but aren’t necessary. I wouldn’t mind him alive but I get a sense that he’s more trouble than he’s worth. Use your judgment.”

“I’ll see what I can do. You deserve a present,” Seb said and, this time, put two dumplings in his mouth at the same time.

Jim’s eyes widened. “How do you do that?” Seb mumbled something unintelligible. “Never mind. The other researchers and agents are also targets but not now. I don’t want this happening to anyone else but we don’t want to draw too much attention. Taking three out is already risky for Charlie.”

Seb nodded. “Wish I could drug, rape, and interrogate them just like they would have done to you and possibly others...”

*~*~*

Mycroft set his attaché case on the floor next to his chair and sat down. Leaning forward, he buried his face in his hands, and sighed. After a few minutes, he retrieved his thermos and a mug and poured the chocolate chai tea. The bag of Crimean cybercriminals were promptly executed while Mycroft forced himself not to think of anything but the warm, sweet, spicy flavor of the cookies mixed with the soothing soft and spicy cocoa notes of the tea. Viktor had, quite possibly, saved his life, again, both directly and indirectly.

After making himself another mug of tea, he felt suitably refreshed and checked in with Anthea. The analysis of the tea from the meeting was almost complete and the majority of the building occupants were preparing to mutiny over the forced lockdown but additional security had been summoned. Good. Mycroft cheerfully told her to inform everyone that they would be interrogated if they tried to leave or caused any disturbance instead of assisting in the investigation and ended the call. Picking up his cell, he pondered the wording of a text to Sherlock.

Can you deliver a package of Mossad spies to my office? -MH Sherlock took a few minutes to reply. Mycroft was beginning to wonder if he’d properly confounded Sherlock and then almost laughed when his brother replied.

Metsada or Kidon? -SH

Kidon, please. -MH

Sooner would be preferable. -MH His office phone rang. It was Anthea and the analysis was complete. Arsenite at a dosage of over 300 mg. In the cup. Mycroft pursed his lips. That was a lethal dose even with the advances of modern medicine. Taking a deep breath, he forced all reaction from his mind and checked Sherlock’s location. St. Bart’s. Perfect.

It’s not too far from Ms. Hooper’s lab. -MH

The evidence from the Sandberg case can wait an hour. -MH He paused and knew that he probably shouldn’t impose on his younger brother especially after everything Sherlock had done.

I would greatly appreciate it. -MH

I seem to have dispatched the Crimean cybercriminals far too quickly. -MH He smiled although he didn’t know what Sherlock thought of the situation as he hadn’t been made privy to Mycroft’s gingerbread man escapade yet. Sherlock’s reply was rapid this time.

Pardon? -SH

Are you all right? Do you need me to come in so that you can take a half day again? -SH Mycroft smiled. He imagined Sherlock being grumpy but could see the concern and caring behind it. 

I actually need a package of gingerbread men. -MH

Or seven. The building is on lockdown. -MH He purposefully left out the detail that there had probably been another attempt on his life as he didn’t want to prematurely worry Sherlock. 

I’ll leave in 7 min 36 secs. -SH Mycroft smiled and replied in Hawaiian. 

Mahalo. -MH

Lockdown? What happened? -SH Mycroft smiled. He didn’t think his brother would miss that little detail. 

Long story. I’ll tell you once you get here. -MH

Leaving soon. -SH

Breathing a sigh of relief because that meant more biscuits would arrive soon, Mycroft set the phone down, interlaced his fingers together, and brought his knuckles to his lips as he finally allowed his thoughts to flow. 

In less than a week’s time he’d been part of a group ruthlessly targeted for assassination. Was it the group or was it the common denominator, him, being targeted? The attack on the embassy could be explained as a strike against high-level targets although there had certainly been plenty to choose from there that evening that hadn’t been in that meeting. The attempt that morning could not be rationalized away as easily. 

The common denominator between the two attacks was Mycroft himself and he had his fingers in enough pies that a motive would be difficult to discern or the fact that both meetings had to do with defense and defense spending. Both scenarios could be deemed likely. Mycroft took another sip of his tea and paused to mentally calculate how long it would take Sherlock to leave St. Barts, buy gingerbread men, get through building security, and reach Mycroft’s office. Not soon enough. He needed a biscuit at that precise moment. 

Taking another sip of tea, Mycroft closed his eyes and analyzed the parameters. There were strong arguments for multiple scenarios and none stood out as more probable. He realized that, perhaps, he was too deeply involved and might not be completely impartial in his analysis. He sighed. Sherlock might be able to help. 

The most troubling part was that, in both cases, the perpetrators had struck with audacity and seeming impunity. They had been willing, and succeeded in one case, to cause multiple casualties. Mycroft shuddered at the casual disregard for human life. For a moment, his mind drifted to the number of times that _he’d_ had such a similar disregard. And especially when he always had seemingly proper justification. For Queen and country. 

He focused his mind back on his analysis. Had the others been collateral damage? Or was each attack a concerted effort toward a certain goal that was justified in the perpetrators’ mind. Was every death a step toward that goal or an added bonus? Mycroft opened his eyes. Too many possibilities. His phone chimed with a priority text. 

Are you okay?! -V Mycroft stared at the text and made a mental note to see if he could elucidate how Viktor had broken into his phone to add himself as an important contact. He also ignored the mental alarms that were sounding over the fact that he needed to investigate the man. 

Trying not to think about how it felt to have Viktor in his lap and the man holding him, keeping him safe, protecting him from certain harm, he typed a quick and neutral reply. 

I’m fine. Thank you. How are you? -MH After he sent the message he realized how tepid that sounded, especially after the morning’s events, so he typed out one more. 

I was about to take a sip even though I’d brought my own chocolate chai. -MH Mycroft stared at his second text and decided it wasn’t all that coherent or competent. 

I’ve developed a fondness for chocolate chai. And gingerbread men who have committed all sorts of atrocities and require proper handling. -MH. That hadn’t helped; it sounded odd. He supposed that, knowing the circumstances, Viktor would probably excuse him. 

I would like to properly thank you for your timely assistance. -MH Mycroft finally smiled. That was a decent reply. He closed his eyes and indulged in the memory of their kiss. The softness and strength of Viktor’s lips that, even with the man having been drugged, had grabbed his soul and wrapped itself around his heart. Mycroft knew that should frighten him to his core but instead it soothed him. 

You’re welcome. ❤ ❤ I’m glad you’re safe!! ❤ ❤ -V Mycroft stared at the hearts and felt his thoughts melt and his own heart start to pound. What did that message mean? What did the tiny, sweet, adorable, loving little hearts mean? Could it mean something? Anything? For several minutes, he refused to look at the next message that came in. Eventually he scrolled down. 

You’d eventually figure it out but for the sake of expediency look at Betsy and Eric DeValmiere. They’ve been naughty. ❤ ❤ -V Mycroft’s eyes widened as his mind put all the pieces together at lightning speed. 


	4. About The Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock have a conversation over tea and gingerbread men.

**About The Tea**

After taking a sip of tea, Mycroft generated several financial reports on Black Lion Security and its CEO Eric DeValmiere, a highly decorated former SAS serviceman and ruthless businessman. The company provided security and special ops services to Britain and several allies. Eric DeValmiere also invested heavily in the defense industry.

Mycroft sighed and ran one more analysis even though he was certain what it would reveal. Eric DeValmiere and Black Lion Security would lose hundreds of millions of pounds if Mycroft’s defense budget and recommendations were to be approved. _His_ proposal. Almost two dozen people dead. Another assassination attempt that had come ridiculously close to more high-level casualties. Mycroft took another sip of tea. And Betsy DeValmiere was having an affair with Lord Pyotte. Mycroft called the heads of MI5 and MI6.

*~*~*

“Are you going to be alright, boss?” Seb asked as he dropped his duffle bag in the kitchen.

“I’ll be fine,” Jim murmured without looking away from the computer.

“I put extra portions of Thai, yesterday’s leftovers, and portions of oven potatoes in the freezer.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Everything is labeled,” Seb continued.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You have meals and/or side dishes for seven days.”

Jim turned and looked at Seb evenly but then smiled quirkily. “You didn’t make me cinnamon pancakes?” he teased.

“I’ll make them when I get back, promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Jim said and then tipped his head to one side in a way that he knew was utterly adorable. “Stop fretting, Sebastian. I’ll be fine.”

“I worry,” Seb admitted. “But I know, of anyone on this planet, you’ll not only take care of yourself and business but come out on top.”

“Always. Now go or I won’t be able to start missing you,” Jim said.

Rolling his eyes, Seb picked up his duffle bag but pointed to one of the kitchen cabinets. “I got you a ton of flavored popcorn.” He smiled wickedly. “I’ll be sending videos.”

Jim smiled and licked his lips. “I can’t wait to see the show.” He waited until Sebastian left before murmuring to himself. “From jolly old England…”

*~*~*

“What the bloody hell, Mycroft?!” The door to Mycroft’s office flew open and Sherlock marched in. Mycroft looked up and smiled as blandly as he could. “Don’t give me that look!” He almost threw the supermarket bag on Mycroft’s desk and then sat down in his usual seat.

Mycroft’s expression morphed into a gleeful smile and he immediately opened the bag. He saw seven packages of gingerbread men on top but beneath them rested a tray from a bakery containing _fresh_ gingerbread men. He gasped and pulled out the tray. The cookies were decorated with icing and sported bright outfits. “Thank you,” he said. 

“Those have better covers.”

“Obviously. Their identities are flawless or they’re casualties. Would you care for some tea?”

“I would care for an explanation,” Sherlock said dryly. “I’m concerned.”

Setting the tray down, Mycroft set about preparing tea. Sherlock’s concern for him was evident and Mycroft reminded himself that he needed to be strong for his brother. Even though, he sadly realized, at that moment, only Sherlock, and Viktor, were _safe_. “Would you like Earl Grey, breakfast, or chocolate chai?” Sherlock remained silent. “Earl Grey it is, although I would highly recommend the chocolate chai.”

“Since when do you drink chocolate chai? That’s rather unlike you.”

“Since a few days ago,” Mycroft said.

“You had it while you were held captive and it’s now eliciting some sort of Stockholm Syndrome reaction in you.”

“No.”

“The omelet yesterday?”

“It’s simply a case of my having tried something new and reaching the conclusion that it was a gastronomically pleasing experience,” Mycroft explained. “There’s no deeper meaning.”

“Bollocks,” Sherlock stated. “Have you analyzed every detail of your behavior? Have you looked at everything with a cool head?”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “I admit that I’ve been rather busy what with being kidnapped, debriefed, and now dealing with another assassination attempt.” Sherlock huffed. “And it’s not necessary, there’s nothing to worry about,” Mycroft added. He returned to his desk, opened the tray of cookies and handed Sherlock one that had blue trousers, a green and white shirt, and sported a red cap. He took one that was wearing a pink and white polkadot dress before returning to making the tea.

Sighing, Sherlock took a bite of the cookie. “I can see where it goes right along with your sweet tooth,” he said but his tone was much gentler. “And they are quite good, if not necessarily _you_.”

“I think…” Mycroft said and then paused for a moment. He wanted to explain to his brother what he was feeling, the uncertainty, the realization on so many levels: physical, intellectual, and even emotional, that he wasn’t an uncaring statue, the pinnacle of cold efficiency, or an unfeeling machine and of how long he’d been trapped and living as an empty shell, in a cold unfeeling hell. But he didn’t know how.

“Yes?” Sherlock eventually prompted.

Shaking his head, Mycroft realized that he’d gotten lost in his thoughts. Again. That had certainly been inefficient. The kettle started boiling and he poured the tea. After placing the mugs on the tray, he returned to his desk and set the tray between the two of them. On top of a report.

Sherlock’s eyes widened with shock. He arched an eyebrow and carefully removed the papers from underneath the tray. “What _exactly_ happened this morning?” he asked while handing Mycroft the papers.

Not trusting his own words at the moment and not sure which answer Sherlock was angling for, Mycroft easily turned the question. “What are _your_ deductions?”

Sherlock steepled his fingers. “There was another attempt on government personnel, including you.” Mycroft nodded. “Casualties were averted but the building is on lockdown until the perpetrator is found.”

“Very good.”

“Not deductions; the guards at the door. They knew better than to argue with me and simply let me in.”

“Obviously, and good. It seems some goldfish can be taught.”

“Judging by your fairly calm demeanor,” Sherlock continued. “You’ve discovered who is behind either one or both attempts but you haven’t determined how today’s event was carried out.” Mycroft nodded again. “Very few people besides the targets even know what happened.”

“Correct,” Mycroft said and picked up a teaspoon to stir his tea. “Arsenite in the tea. Strong enough to kill within a few hours.”

“Pity about the tea,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft chuckled. “Agreed, it’s a travesty; but I had my own so I would have been safe,” he explained and suddenly realized that he’d made a small mistake. No one else would notice it. Perhaps his brother wouldn’t either, especially if he proceeded rapidly and engaged Sherlock’s mind with something else. “After I called the lockdown and had the tea tested, I ran reports on all the potential common denominators between this attack and the one at the embassy.” Sherlock frowned so Mycroft gestured to all the papers scattered haphazardly on his desk. “Pure and simple greed as well as unabated hubris and unchecked psychopathy.”

“Usually at the root of most homicides,” Sherlock noted but his expression was still serious and pensive.

“The short of it is that Eric DeValmiere, CEO of Black Lion Security and former SAS, stood to lose hundreds of millions of pounds if my proposed defense budget was approved,” Mycroft said. “His sister, Betsy, is currently Lord Pyotte’s mistress so she convinced him to send me to St. Petersburg where the first attempt occurred. We’re still working on how the second attack was carried out..”

“May I question the staff after I read over these reports?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft smiled and relaxed. His little brother was an absolute treasure. “I would appreciate it if you could, although I don’t want to impose. You’ve already gone above and beyond to help in this situation.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “This isn’t a _situation_ , Mycroft. You’re my brother.”

Those words made Mycroft want to either cry or hug Sherlock. Despite everything and his misguided direction, Sherlock had turned out fine and a truly beautiful human being, one of whom he was exceptionally proud. Mycroft wished that he had the words or some other way to say that. “I still appreciate it, Sherlock,” he whispered.

It looked as though that admission almost frightened Sherlock so Mycroft paused. His brother took a sip of his tea then reached over and grabbed Mycroft’s mug. With a saucy smirk, Sherlock tried some. “It’s better than I expected.”

“Your upbringing has clearly been deficient,” Mycroft grumbled but then smiled. “Thank you for bringing me the Mossad agents.” He eyed the tray of bakery gingerbread men. “And the civilian casualties. I’ll let Anthea know that you can interview anyone you wish.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said quietly. “How did you know the tea was poisoned?”

Mycroft quickly smiled as blankly as he could manage. He’d been hoping that Sherlock wouldn’t notice that. “Pardon?”

”Arsenic is odorless and tasteless.”

Mycroft frowned. He grabbed another gingerbread man, a fellow with a blue coat and yellow buttons and bit into him. “What do you mean?” he asked trying to buy himself some time to come up with an answer that Sherlock would find plausible. Sherlock glared at him and Mycroft knew excuses wouldn’t work. “Please don’t ask me that,” he said.

Sherlock sighed and then looked deeply into Mycroft’s eyes. “ _He_ told you,” he said without sounding accusatory. “The kidnapper.”

Mycroft lowered his head. “Don’t, just don’t,” he whispered. “It’s fine. I have everything under control.”

Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily and then looked back at Mycroft intently. “Have you thought, analyzed the situation with regard to this man through and through yet?” he asked softly. “All of it? All of the implications? All the potential ramifications?”

“No,” Mycroft admitted and then shook his head as an afterthought. “There’s been too much since I returned.” 

“Tomorrow, Mycroft,” Sherlock said firmly. “I really want you to look at this, at what you’ve been doing, at what this person did and has been doing.” He took a sip of his tea. “I need you to consider whether this is the happenstance you’ve let yourself believe this is or if this is someone setting up a deep cover operation. You were extremely vulnerable. You could be in more danger than you think you are.”

“I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

“Tomorrow, promise me,” Sherlock insisted. “We’ll sort through this mess today and tomorrow you deal with him. I trust you to do this but if you need to talk it through, out loud, call me…” He smirked. “I’ll let you take me out for omelets again...”


	5. Nightmares and Lullabies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim takes care of business, furthers his plans, and has a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW: a detailed description of Jim childhood abuse and rape followed by his interrogation.** It's not graphic but there's a lot listed and it's rather disjointed. Skip the SECOND section if you think you will trigger. The point is that Jim has a nightmare induced panic attack.

**Nightmares and Lullabies**

 

After Sebastian left, Jim cleaned the house. It didn’t really need cleaning but certain activities calmed his mind when he felt himself starting to become anxious. Then he made pirukad- Estonian dumplings. He tried not to think of Mycroft Holmes, and wasn’t successful. Because there was nothing that needed his immediate attention, his thoughts kept meandering to the feel of the man in his arms, to sitting in his lap, to a graceful waltz, and to an exquisite kiss.

As he ate, Jim remembered his own words. _In another life, Mika, I could have loved you._ And Mycroft’s reply. _In another life, Viktor, I would have done something about it… Because I already love you…_ Jim shook his head and wondered how in less than twenty-four hours together, under rather tenuous circumstances, he’d gone from reviling Mycroft Holmes to a feeling that he didn’t quite understand completely, or want to. Understanding Mycroft. Caring. Wanting to help him. Wanting more for him on a purely altruistic level.

Jim supposed that he didn’t need to understand what he was feeling at the moment. He savored it and that was enough. Understanding didn’t change very much. _I am doing something about it, Mika._ That thought resounded through him and made him feel complete. More so than any other case in the recent past. More so than destroying those that had hurt him.

His thoughts languidly drifted to how much his perception of Mycroft had changed. The Iceman had melted and become someone real, a human being, someone who had suffered and struggled growing up, like Jim. Mycroft had managed to overcome his childhood and become successful, while dealing with a toxic family and protecting his younger brother. There were so many similarities in their lives that it left Jim feeling unsure of his previous convictions.

Shaking his head, he smiled wistfully. The fact that Mycroft had never been kissed before the night of the embassy ball was both shocking and sweet. Jim’s smile morphed into a smirk and he gleefully relished the thought that he’d been Mycroft Holmes’s first kiss. After finishing dinner and the dishes, he checked on the progress of Sebastian’s itinerary. He’d made it to Frankfurt and the next flight to Seattle was due to depart shortly. Perfect.

Jim sat down at the computer and confirmed that everything in Seattle was ready for the mission. Thinking about Nikolai and the fact that Viktor had been deemed disposable angered him. He was also concerned that Viktor was in a CIA database. They obviously didn’t think he was all that dangerous, nothing more than a “soft target”, but his presence there was not optimal. As soon as the mission began, he would render that situation properly.

Next Jim did a quick perusal of MI5 and MI6’s computers. Mycroft seemed to be handling the assassination attempt well, which made Jim smile. He did notice an email from the German ambassador in Russia in Mycroft’s inbox and, on further inspection saw that it was an unredacted guest list. Jim frowned but then relaxed when he saw that it wasn’t entirely accurate- several names weren’t on the list. Smiling grimly, he sent the ambassador an email as Wassily Kabakov expressing his displeasure. That should give the man a coronary and prevent further disclosures.

After preparing himself a whiskey sour, Jim perused all his active cases to make sure that everything was in order. He paid special attention to the American projects and made sure there were no movements against his operations as Charlie Masseria. Despite having various alerts built into his systems, Jim preferred to check manually at least once a day. Better safe than needing a massive, time-consuming, last minute intervention.

Lastly, Jim skimmed the forums for anything new and noteworthy. There was nothing that qualified as interesting so Jim hacked back into the British government’s mainframe and checked Sherlock’s account. There was plenty of new activity there which didn’t surprise him considering that the incompetent British government had immediately called Sherlock when Mycroft had vanished and they would have tried to keep him working for as long as possible. 

Jim sighed. Sherlock would have been such an asset in _his_ operation if he hadn’t become so moral and tedious with that doctor of his. Such a waste. He made himself another drink before returning to the files. 

Most of it was bland government jabberwocky and Sherlock learning to navigate the system professionally but one file caught his attention. It was titled Mycroft. “Hmmmmm…” Jim murmured and took a sip. “Has little Sherly been investigating dear big brother? This could prove to be entertaining.”

Jim’s amusement rapidly turned to dismay and concern. The file had all sorts of data and analyses regarding Mycroft’s disappearance, a copy of the supposedly unredacted guest list along with notes that several guests were missing, and more information on the Czech Republic consul general than even Jim had in his files. Jim’s concern increased.

There were also several files on each member of the meeting that Mycroft should have attended as well as on each attacker. Jim had all that information but he was impressed at the speed with which Sherlock had obtained all of it. Sherlock was brilliant. Jim supposed if he ever got over his annoyance at Sherlock for turning him over to Mycroft, he would absolutely love to work with the younger Holmes. 

And then Jim saw it. A folder labelled Video. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath. This couldn’t be good. Jim took a very long sip and forced himself to stay calm. The folder contained several files. Jim groaned and selected the video file. It was a poor quality video of him and Mycroft at the ball that had been expertly spliced from various camera feeds. No faces, almost nothing identifiable, very difficult to track a complete trajectory since Jim had avoided the cameras masterfully but still that was them. 

Cursing in Gaelic, Jim downloaded the video. He then read Sherlock’s notes and was both amazed and horrified at how the man had almost perfectly deduced the path that he and Mycroft had taken. It was terrifyingly accurate. Taking a deep breath, he squelched the panic. He was barely visible, masked, and identification was impossible. There was nothing to worry about.

After downloading Sherlock’s notes, Jim exited the account and contemplated loading a virus to delete all the information. He certainly expected Sherlock to have a copy of all those files somewhere but deleting them off of British Intelligence computers was of utmost importance. He took another sip and pondered the situation a bit more. The hapless Lord Pyotte was certainly in a world of trouble already. A little more couldn’t hurt.

Jim carefully hacked into Lord Pyotte’s account and from there programmed in a virus set to go off at midnight, London time, that would eliminate the files and cause enough trouble to deflect attention from Sherlock’s account. There would be time enough later to get any of Sherlock’s copies. The next order of business was to find the location of the off site backups and send an agent to destroy them, a feat accomplished in fairly short order.

Sighing, Jim finished his drink. Viktor needed to have a conversation with the German ambassador the following morning before departing for Edinburgh. He closed his eyes and went over his mental to-do list one more time and then searched the refrigerator for some dessert. Bless Sebastian. A cherry pie had miraculously appeared. Jim cut himself a large slice, warmed it, and then scooped some fudge ripple ice cream on it. Perfect for just before bedtime.

*~*~*

Jim tried to move but he couldn’t. His arms were restrained. Straightjacket. He could barely breathe. Mycroft kept asking him questions. Water filled his nostrils, then his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. Everything hurt. His stepfather punched him but that didn’t get the water out.

Electricity. Pain everywhere. Jim started vomiting. The water poured from his mouth and out of his nostrils. Then blood. Jim tried to scream but couldn’t. The straightjacket kept getting tighter. He tried to inhale and was powerless against the constriction..

He couldn’t breathe because his stepfather was on top of him, hitting him, smashing him into the wall, the floor, throwing him against the table or the counter. Jim felt himself vomiting again. He tried to find his sister but he couldn’t see her. Fighting against the man was impossible. Jim was so very small. And everything hurt.

Gasping for breath, he turned his head and saw his little sister, still wearing a pink and white dress, soaked in blood, lying in a pool of blood, not breathing. Jim tried to scream but couldn’t draw in air. His stepfather was holding him down. And Mycroft Holmes, dressed in his Gieves & Hawkes suit, was standing behind his little sister. “You can end this _now_ , Mr. Moriarty.” 

Mycroft’s voice chilled him as his stepfather slammed him against the wall again and then the interrogator plunged his head into the water. Jim struggled to breathe and felt darkness encroaching. They wouldn’t kill him. He had important information.

“I will ask you one more time, Mr. Moriarty,” Mycroft hissed icily and Jim shuddered. He felt himself freezing and his stepfather flung him down onto the floor. Jim felt his bones rattle inside his body. He whimpered and felt the straightjacket tightening.

Mycroft stood above him and jabbed his chest with his umbrella. Electricity and then excruciating pain coursed through him. He tried to scream but he couldn’t breathe.

“The codes, Mr. Moriarty.” Jim looked up into Mycroft’s frigid unfeeling eyes and knew he needed to get out. He didn’t care about Sherlock anymore. Sherlock obviously didn’t love him. Mycroft jabbed him with the umbrella and this time Jim’s body convulsed with pain and he felt as though he was choking. His stepfather was on top of him and he couldn’t breathe.

“Let’s try again, Mr. Moriarty.” Jim looked up again and tried to see what was behind the Iceman. He knew that he simply needed to win the game and get out. His love for Sherlock had been beaten out of him but he couldn’t let the Holmes brothers win. Another interrogator started burning him with a cauterizing needle, searing his skin, just small burns that were large enough to leave scars, and then his stepfather was choking him. Jim couldn’t breathe. But he had to win.

“You could make this easier on yourself, James,” Mycroft sneered and again Jim looked up. He _knew_ there was something behind the icy exterior. He’d seen it. He’d held Mycroft Holmes in his arms and felt it. He struggled against the straightjacket and tried to see clearly through the pain. His stepfather pushed his face down into the bathtub. 

He couldn’t breathe. Wanting to scream, he fell to the floor. Everything hurt. Mycroft stared at him impassively. Gasping for breath, Jim managed to stand and touch his face. Ice. The Iceman was made out of ice. He stared at Mycroft and saw frozen tears fall from the man’s eyes. Mycroft’s hands closed around his neck and started applying pressure. He screamed. 

*~*~*

Gasping for air, Jim jolted awake, sat up, and frantically stared around the room. It was dark, the bed was spinning, and he was alone. Grabbing the blankets, he instinctively pushed himself backwards and slammed into the headboard with enough force to knock the breath out of his lungs. He didn’t know where he was, what was happening, or why. He just knew that he needed to escape, run far, far away. There would be plenty of time to kill them all later.

After a moment, he rolled off the bed, along with all the blankets, and curled up underneath it. As cohesive thoughts returned, Jim started sobbing quietly. “Sebastian?” he called out even though he instinctively knew that Seb was not there. He was alone. Curling up even more tightly around himself, he focused on his breathing. That always helped in any situation and eventually made everything better no matter what they did to him.

*~*~*

The beeping of his phone sharpened Jim’s focus. Someone important was texting him. He felt as though he were almost back to normal but hoped he didn’t have to deal with any sort of crisis. Rolling out from underneath the bed, he sighed and untangled himself from the blankets. He guessed it had taken him over an hour, possibly two, to become mostly coherent. Standing up, he grabbed his phone without looking at it, turned on the lights, and then made his way to the kitchen for a snack. 

Another piece of cherry pie and the remainder of the fudge ripple ice cream had him feeling much more functional. He finally looked at his phone and saw that the text was from Mycroft. Frowning, Jim found a package of Milano cookies in a cabinet and then sighed as he thought on the elder Holmes again. 

Mycroft was alone. He’d never been kissed until a few days prior and he probably had never made love. Jim guessed that he’d never even been touched in an affectionate manner and all his relationships were strictly professional and courteous at best. At worst, who knew. Even his relationship with Sherlock had been fraught with pitfalls and peril. 

Jim put an entire cookie in his mouth. Mycroft didn’t have a Sebastian to buy him cookies and to cuddle with after panic attacks or nightmares. That episode had been awful and the starkness of not having Sebastian near him was striking. Jim remembered his panic attacks before meeting Sebastian and imagined what it would have been like if he never had. That was Mycroft’s life. Jim ate another cookie as he remembered holding Mycroft while all the images from this panic attack flashed through his mind. It left him feeling lost and disconcerted.

“Where do I go from here?” he muttered out loud and then rose to make himself tea. He checked the clock; it was still early. Decaf, it would have to be, even if he probably wouldn’t fall back asleep. Milano cookies tasted better dunked in chocolate chai but they did well enough in decaf Irish Breakfast. Once he sat down again, he finally looked at Mycroft’s text.

Thank you again. The matter has been dealt with accordingly -MH

Jim laughed around a mouthful of cookie. That sounded like the Mycroft Holmes that he knew. The message had been sent a while back and he guessed that Mycroft might be asleep already but he tapped out a reply.

You’re welcome. After everything, it would be a waste if you were to succumb in your own government building of very proper English tea. -V

Mycroft’s reply was almost immediate.

I’m still rather put out that they wasted a good pot of tea. -MH

Jim laughed.

That’s an unforgivable offence. The uncouth barbarians! -❤ V

Jim ate another cookie and then typed out another text.

Why are you still up? Isn’t it late there? -❤ V

There was no reply for a long while. Jim started wondering if Mycroft had managed to fall asleep but then two messages appeared simultaneously followed by a third shortly thereafter.

So much has happened. -MH

There’s so much to think about and analyze. -MH

I’m struggling to fall asleep. -MH

And that made Jim want to cry. Both awake, struggling with what was in their minds, and lonely. He took a deep breath and made a decision.

Imagine that I’m holding you...? -❤ V

It took a few minutes for Mycroft to reply.

I’ve been trying, actually. My head can’t stop though. -MH

Jim frowned and pondered the situation. He then found an MP3 file of Bayu Bayushki Bayu, one of his favorite Russian lullabies, and sent it to Mycroft.

I’m here; you’re there. It’s safe. -❤ V

Listen to the song. It’s one of my favorites. I remember my mother singing lullabies. -❤ V

He paused for a moment and then tapped out one more message.

Let me hold you in your mind. Let everything else go. I won’t ever hurt you. -❤ V

“I won’t hurt you… ever,” Jim murmured out loud and tried sending Mycroft some reassuring thoughts and soothing energy. “No matter how much you’ve hurt me…” After twenty minutes of not getting a reply, Jim smiled and felt himself relax.


	6. French Omelet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to work for both Mycroft and Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter, posted early because fabricdragon had a truly awful, horrible, terrible no good day.

**French Omelet**

( _the following morning_ )  
Mycroft awoke feeling far more refreshed than he expected. He rose and promptly set about his morning routine: Tea. Breakfast, a French omelet with shiitake mushrooms, gruyere, and tarragon. Shaving. Shower. Getting dressed. Organizing and preparing his daily agenda. Planning or packing his meal. He decided that he would see if Sherlock would join him for lunch. He wasn’t quite sure what, perhaps he’d see if his brother wanted to decide, but it would be about the time spent together. Packing gingerbread men. He had four packages left at the office but considering all the foolishness and assassination attempts that work seemed to entail of late, he’d probably need a few more to get through the day.

Finally Mycroft looked at his phone and reread Viktor’s messages. “What am I doing?” he whispered softly and caressed the side of his phone with his fingers. He replayed the Russian lullaby and smiled as he made the decision that he was _not_ going to think about Viktor except to imagine how it felt to have the man holding him in his arms. 

That day, he was going to get his life organized and his work back in order. He felt energized. There was a certain strength within him that he’d never felt before. He supposed he could describe it as being whole and with two feet on solid ground but that didn’t quite do it justice. Or perhaps it was the feeling of not being alone, worthless, unloved, and meaningless. Mycroft supposed he should probably analyze those feelings as well but he decided that it wasn’t necessary at the moment. It was a lovely feeling in and of itself and Mycroft was going to cherish it and make the most of it.

*~*~*

The morning was difficult for Jim, more than he had expected. He never went back to sleep and he was still shaky from the nightmare and panic attack. The fact that he was functional didn’t mean that he was _fine_. Focusing on his case helped. Work always helped. It felt as though it assuaged a part of him that was broken. It didn’t really fix anything but Jim would take the soothing over nothing.

Jim was looking forward to _this_ case. It was his favorite kind and it had been a long while since he’d handled something personally, too long. Despite all the airs he put on, there was something truly satisfying about getting one’s hands dirty, every now and then. It was an edge on which he liked to cut himself, periodically.

A private three hour flight from Tallinn brought Dutch systems programmer Thijs Van den Berg home to Amsterdam after a lengthy assignment. A one and a half hour flight brought Robert Murdoch to visit his ailing nanna and celebrate her ninetieth birthday. The rest of the afternoon was spent getting to the English countryside, confirming that he would be able to get what he needed the following day, and following up with Sebastian. Everything was going according to plan in Seattle. Jim knew he didn’t have to worry but he still did.

*~*~*

Mycroft was staring at several reports on terrorist recruitment activities in certain marginalized communities in the country when a light on his office phone flashed, indicating that he had less than five seconds to prepare for the arrival of his younger brother. He minimized certain screens and then plastered his usual complacent bland smile on his face “Hello, Sherlock,” he said as soon as the door was flung open. “Do close the door carefully.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t quite slam the door shut. “Why isn’t my account working?” he growled. “And why would I want to have lunch with you?”

Folding his hands in front of him, Mycroft’s expression became serious. “It seems a virus wreaked havoc in our computer systems and some accounts were either completely annihilated or infected and spreading the virus. It’s contained but it almost got to MI6 and we’re still trying to determine the breadth of the attack as well as the true source.”

“I see.”

“An unfortunate occurrence and it seems that we’re having trouble locating the offsite backup which is inconceivable in and of itself but here we are.”

“The incompetence of the British government never ceases to amaze me.”

“I have a team dedicated to trying to salvage as many cases as possible from _your_ files.”

Sherlock nodded. “I suppose if they can simply manage to get the work from last week, that would be sufficient,” he said. “I have a backup at home of everything earlier.”

Mycroft glared at him. “You’re not supposed to make copies of government files and take them elsewhere.”

“I repeat, your government is incompetent,” Sherlock answered drily.

“The only copies are supposed to be on the government servers and the secure offsite backups,” Mycroft insisted. Sherlock shot him a bored look. “Well, I suppose in this _one_ instance, it was a wise precaution.”

“Were _your_ files corrupted?”

“No, a few of us were spared. I’m not sure what to make of it as my files are of utmost importance,” Mycroft said and took a sip of tea. 

“Perhaps they couldn’t get through your added security,” Sherlock suggested. “You are a bit obsessive compulsive.”

“Nonsense.”

“It’s true.”

Mycroft chuckled at Sherlock’s doggedness. “Moving onward, would you like tea before we head out to lunch?”

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock murmured. “And I still haven’t agreed to lunch.”

Smirking, Mycroft rose to his feet. “I did offer to buy.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Which tea would you prefer?”

“That chocolate chai wasn’t half bad,” Sherlock murmured.

“It’s rather good,” Mycroft said and set about preparing more tea while Sherlock retrieved his laptop and started several programs. As soon as the tea was ready, Mycroft brought the tea tray complete with a bag of gingerbread men to his desk and set it on an open space. “Those,” he said and indicated the biscuits, “are Somali pirates.”

“You’re still doing that.”

“Obviously.” Mycroft sat down. “Where do you want to get lunch?”

“I don’t care; whatever you prefer,” Sherlock said. “We can have bloody omelets again if it suits you.”

Mycroft smiled. “That would be lovely,” he said and opened the bag of gingerbread men. “What did you want to discuss?”

“Your thoughts on the kidnapping.”

Mycroft took a deep breath and fought down the irritation he felt at Sherlock for not letting the subject of Viktor go. “I see…” he mumbled.

“You did review everything like you said you were going to yesterday?” Sherlock asked seriously.

“Well…”

“You promised me, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.

“It’s complicated,” Mycroft said softly. “And-”

“This is serious,” Sherlock interrupted. “I only know a small fraction of what it is that you do and that’s enough for me to realize how dangerous this situation is.” He seemed about to continue but Mycroft raised his hand to stop him.

“I do understand,” Mycroft stated. “And I am not oblivious to all the potential implications.”

“Good.”

“I simply decided that since my accidental kidnapping is currently resolved,” Mycroft continued, “and there is nothing pertaining to the matter that requires my immediate attention, that I would spend the majority of today getting myself organized and my workflows running smoothly once more.” Sherlock nodded but didn’t seem convinced. “There is nothing that I find more abhorrent and that leads to more dysfunction than chaos.” Sherlock snorted. “It’s true. Once I have everything under control, presumably by this evening, then I will focus on Viktor.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “His name is Viktor.”

Mycroft suddenly realized that he’d never mentioned Viktor’s name before and he wasn’t sure that Sherlock knowing it was a good thing. “Yes,” he said and took a deep breath as he fought to understand the emotions that talking about Viktor brought up. “I will tell you that he treated me with kindness and utmost respect so while I will be as unbiased as I can possibly be and I certainly expect your analysis to be brutally honest, I would ask that you go in with an open mind and give him the benefit of the doubt.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but then the telephone rang. They shared a look of pure unadulterated annoyance and then Mycroft answered. It was Anthea announcing that Lady Smallwood needed to see him. He politely told Anthea to send her in while showing Sherlock his most dismayed expression.

“Elizabeth,” Mycroft said while rising. “We have a meeting this afternoon.”

“Yes,” she replied and eyed Sherlock skeptically. “I was concerned and thought to stop by to see if you needed anything.”

“I think your concern would be better placed on your own department,” Mycroft replied icily. “I have not lost the capability of finding information or delegating tasks if necessary.” Lady Smallwood blushed slightly but Mycroft wasn’t finished. He’d heard of his brother’s treatment at the hands of his colleagues and he was not going to let that slide.

“I am also highly dismayed that certain individuals who took on additional responsibilities or were simply called in during my absence were not only not given any assistance,” Mycroft continued coldly. “But they were also treated disparagingly and with little respect.”

Lady Smallwood’s eyes widened with surprise. “We were all a bit… stressed with the prospect of your… disappearance.”

“All the more reason to treat them with respect,” Mycroft’s voice became icy. “Because they are human beings and they chose to assist you even though it was not their responsibility.”

Lady Smallwood looked like she was about to wither. “I’ll see about making it up to the individuals involved and making sure that they realize the extent of our appreciation,” she said quietly but refused to look at Sherlock.

“See that you do,” Mycroft continued. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I was about to take my brother to lunch. I’ll see you at fifteen hundred.” Lady Smallwood nodded and left quickly.

“Goldfish,” Mycroft grumbled once the door was closed.

“What was that about?” Sherlock rose and tipped his head questioningly at Mycroft. 

“I am most displeased with how you and the others were treated by them,” Mycroft replied. “It was one of the matters that I felt needed addressing.”

Sherlock shrugged and tried to hide a small smile. “We had the situation under control.”

Mycroft’s lips curled into a pleased smile as he reiterated Sherlock’s words from the previous day. “This isn’t a _situation_ , Sherlock. You’re my brother.” He smirked. “Now let’s get some lunch. It’s been entirely too long since I had a French omelet.”


	7. Mirror, Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft reflects and Jim acts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: canon typical violence and some explicit naughtiness at the end

**Mirror, Mirror**

( _the following afternoon_ )  
After five meetings, three arguments, eighty-six reports, and one lovely lunch by himself, almost, Mycroft sat at his desk with two mugs of chocolate chai tea, a package of Hungarian bank robbers, and a tub of vanilla icing. He turned on some Rimsky-Korsakov at a very low volume and momentarily closed his eyes.

He’d gone back to the cafe where he and Sherlock had had lunch the two previous days but this time without company. The security guard that Anthea had sent to follow him had managed to remain unobtrusive enough so that Mycroft had enjoyed his lunch regardless. He made a mental note to request young Elvin in the future.

It was time to think about Viktor and not in the gratifying way that Mycroft preferred.

There was no way that Viktor could be a _simple bookkeeper_ even one for the mafia as he claimed. Mycroft decided to start at the beginning. The man had embassy connections. Bookkeepers weren’t usually that well connected or invited to embassy parties and Viktor hadn’t carried himself much like a bookkeeper there. Or ever. That wasn’t really a cause for concern. He doubted that even one honest person could be found in that embassy.

Mycroft took a sip of tea before opening the tub of icing and the package of gingerbread men. While Viktor hadn’t given him _iced_ gingerbread criminals, Mycroft was fond of the extra sweetness and he felt that he deserved the small indulgence. Waltzing with Viktor could be considered a way to burn off the excess sugar and Mycroft decided that after he’d analyzed everything, he might just have to find a way to get himself another waltz.

Two iced Hungarian bank robbers later, Mycroft forced his thoughts away from waltzes and back to Viktor himself and specifically the circumstances of their initial meeting. Mistaken identity. Viktor had obviously been drugged; there was no doubt about that. He took another sip of tea and replayed their waltz and the kidnapping in his mind several times and compared it to the video that Sherlock had spliced together from the camera feeds. Yesterday afternoon, he’d made a copy off of Sherlock’s back-up and stored it on a stick drive.

Even though he’d been drugged out of his mind, Viktor had still danced masterfully, subdued him with only a small knife, and had navigated them past hundreds of guests and trained security without raising any alarm and mostly avoiding all the cameras. That indicated extraordinary skill and training that had become instinctual; and perhaps a fair amount of innate ability. Mycroft had only seen that in 00’s or agents of that level. He had no doubt whatsoever that Viktor was a spy and a killer and not a low-level bookkeeper for some midlevel American crook.

That conclusion was terrifying and didn’t make sense taken with the fact that nothing had been done to him and he’d simply been _let go_. Mycroft finished his first mug of tea, made another, and iced a few more gingerbread men before proceeding. 

He reviewed the first part of that evening once more and couldn’t glean any new information from it. His thoughts then moved to Sergei and he quickly dismissed Viktor’s claims that they were simply casual acquaintances. Lovers obviously. Mycroft had sensed a very deep level of caring between the two and yet, enough detachment to indicate a lack of a serious commitment. Good.

Sergei was military, competent, focused, disciplined, strong, probably current or retired Alpha Group or Vympel. That reinforced Mycroft’s conclusion that Viktor was not a simple bookkeeper because what would a simple bookkeeper be doing with someone of that caliber unless it was an absolute coincidence and Mycroft did not believe in those. His phone rang but he ignored it. He took a sip of tea.

Sergei disliked him. That had been readily obvious. What wasn’t easily explained was whether that was because Mycroft was a loose end that should have been eliminated or if it had been jealousy. The latter complicated matters slightly. Jealousy was an irrational emotion and led to unpredictable actions.

Frowning, Mycroft ate a gingerbread man. Another thought pushed itself to the forefront of his mind. Sergei had known who he was and therefore what he did. Viktor claimed to have been tortured and interrogated and Sergei’s dislike could stem from simple concern for Viktor but that also complicated matters. He sighed. The situation was not as simple or clear-cut as he would have wished.

Mycroft shifted his thoughts to the second half of his kidnapping. His panic attack has been brutal but Viktor’s response had been genuine. No matter how many times he replayed it in his mind, there was no denying that he heard caring in Viktor’s voice and the man knew how to handle that type of occurrence competently. That certainly proved Viktor’s statement that he had suffered from the same. 

Mycroft felt a sudden irrational burst of rage and he angrily grabbed a gingerbread man. He wanted to murder the people that had hurt Viktor. His thoughts shifted to all the people that _he_ had interrogated, tortured, and hurt. Moriarty flashed across his mind, especially Moriarty. He squelched those thoughts. He needed to focus on sweet, caring Viktor and what was happening in the present. 

His expression shifted to an odd quirky smile and he checked the new cup of tea. Still too hot. Viktor probably wasn’t all that sweet or caring in general but that didn’t matter to Mycroft. He couldn’t precisely describe how he felt about the man but it was certainly an affection born of unexpected consideration and empathy. At a minimum.

Viktor had understood, at a level deeper than Mycroft had ever expected another human being to be able to do. Viktor knew what he had experienced and how it had affected him. Viktor had validated him and what he had gone through while trying to help him overcome it. And it had helped. Mycroft felt better and stronger than he had in a long time and he felt that his childhood nightmares had receded somewhat.

Viktor’s voice had reverberated through him with the tone of someone who had lived through the same experiences, the same hell. Mycroft sighed and iced another gingerbread man. He wanted to hold Viktor and somehow ease the other man’s pain and memories in much the same way that Viktor had done for him.

After eating the biscuit and sipping his tea, he went over every word and every detail of his waking time with Viktor to see if he could have missed anything. There was nothing. He took another sip of tea and then picked up his pen as he formulated some conclusions.

Viktor had had a abusive childhood which had groomed him to be a high level Russian intelligence agent. Typical in that level of field agents. Something had happened during a mission where he had been captured and tortured to an extent that he had no longer been able to function in his previous capacity. He had _retired_ to bookkeeping with his bodyguard and/or partner, Sergei, but old habits die hard and he still took easy side-work, which was why he’d been at the embassy or why he did the books for an American mafioso. 

The fact that Mycroft hadn’t been sold, ransomed, interrogated, or hurt in any way seemed to indicate that their meeting had been random. Viktor’s story was legitimate and the man didn’t have any ulterior motives with regards to Mycroft. 

He supposed that there could be a miniscule chance that this was an elaborate set up for a deep cover operation but that seemed entirely too far fetched and to no sensible end. Viktor had already captured him. There was nothing in the future that could outshine the value of holding Mycroft in the present and turning him over to someone for money, for favors, for anything he might have wanted. Doing otherwise would be an unsure gamble for a guaranteed lesser return.

And that thought is what finally convinced Mycroft. No matter how much he wanted to believe that Viktor cared about him, he wouldn’t have let himself be fooled by emotions. The cost/benefit analysis of any situation always yielded accurate results. There was little benefit in letting Mycroft go if this had been a mission with a purpose and a cost.

Viktor had come across as extremely intelligent. Mycroft smiled; that was another thing to like about Viktor. He picked up a gingerbread man and smiled. His mind began plotting furiously. Viktor may have been invalided from high level missions but he clearly still had skill and ability. Mycroft was willing to concede, admittedly with a bit of bias, that Viktor was more capable than the majority of agents in MI5 or MI6. “Tomorrow I start working on a plan to lure you here…”

*~*~*

Almost half past midnight, Jim entered his room in the modest hotel in Birmingham, dropped his suitcase, and removed his long coat revealing a blood soaked suit. After hanging up the coat, he leaned against the door and sighed. It had been a very long and very satisfying day. 

Walking to the bathroom, he let himself luxuriate in the feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment for a moment and then turned on the shower. He removed his gloves and tossed them in a corner before turning on the tap at the sink and rinsing the dried blood off of his fingers. The sanguine red diluted with the water, vanishing down the drain signified so much on so many levels that Jim shuddered. It was beautiful and bordered on the erotic. He took a deep long breath. “Daddy killed it,” Jim murmured softly.

He slowly stripped off his suit and stood in front of the mirror. Blood had seeped through the shirt and smeared on his pale skin. “Skin white as snow, covered with red blood, and hair black as ebony… like Snow White,” he said. “Only not so virginal.” He laughed. “I’d fuck them all six ways to Sunday and poison all the apples.” The blood had mostly dried so he couldn’t draw elaborate designs on his skin. Jim pressed himself against the mirror, smearing some of the blood on the glass that was collecting moisture. Moving back, he licked his lips and adjusted the water temperature. Hot. He wanted it hot.

Stepping into the shower, he let the water run over him and watched the blood flow down his body, like a regal red mantle, and vanish down the drain, like the illusion of childhood innocence. Jim reached for the complimentary hotel shower gel. Its floral smell was a stark contrast to what his day had been but it turned him on. Jim squeezed the pale pink gel slowly out of the small bottle and onto his hand. Too bad it wasn’t red. Fascinated by the design the gel was making, he clenched his fist and then slowly opened it. Like squeezing the life out of a vile soul. 

Jim slowly rubbed the gel first on his neck, then on his chest and stomach. Washing away the filth. He decided his nipples needed more gel and gave them each a drop straight from the bottle followed by some extra attention. He wondered what parts of Mycroft’s body were erogenous while mentally overlaying Mycroft’s body with Sebastian’s and tormenting both while touching himself.

Jim started getting hard. He rubbed the gel all over his lower body before sliding two slicked fingers inside himself. With his other hand he started stroking his cock. His thoughts flew to what he had done, blood dripping from his hands, down to the floor, and on the plush velvet chair. He imagined blood dripping down Sebastian and Mycroft in intricate delicate designs and running tongue on both their bodies, lapping at their blood and tasting their skin. 

“Oh, yes.” Jim moaned while stroking himself harder and pumping his fingers faster. He crooked his fingers so they’d graze his prostate and another moan escaped his lips. The thought of impaling himself on Sebastian while driving into Mycroft over and over was irresistible. When, in his mind, they screamed his name, he came.


	8. Field Reports

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seb reports to Jim on the mission in Seattle. Mycroft gets a call from the CIA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: description of how people are killed in the first part. It's mild, no gore.

**Field Reports**

After that delectable shower, Jim crawled under the covers with his laptop and phone and texted Sebastian. He noticed that his sniper had sent him a few files.

Had a lovely lovely lovely shower. -JM

That good, huh? -SM

Always. -xoxoJM

When I’m good, I’m good; when I’m bad, I’m better! -JM

I sent you a movie. Make yourself lots of popcorn. It’s action packed. -SM

Jim frowned and looked around the room. He hadn’t packed any popcorn and his modest hotel didn’t provide any. “How rude,” he grumbled and then scanned the files that Seb had sent. There were several pictures and videos. 

After adjusting the pillow behind him, Jim started the first video. Sebastian was scoping out a house. The time stamp showed it was at night, a few hours after he had arrived in Seattle. The next video showed Seb, with his usual prowess, incapacitating and restraining a man roughly in his sixties, glasses, wearing a suit, and carrying a briefcase and then injecting a substance in him.

“Succinylcholine,” Jim murmured as he watched Seb bring the man to the bedroom while speaking to him. Jim’s lips curled into a malicious smile. “Let’s see how you like it…” he growled softly. Sebastian dropped the man onto his bed and adjusted the pillow. Jim snickered. Seb was always so courteous. The man lay completely limp as Seb removed the zip ties and then wandered to the basement. After making a few adjustments to certain parts of the furnace, he checked the windows to make sure they were all closed and then left. 

Jim breathed a sigh of relief. Cyrus McClain, the head of the CIA drug project, was certainly dead by that point. Making a mental note to check the CIA website later, he switched to the next video and saw Seb breaking into a bohemian townhouse. “Cute place,” he muttered and paused the video to retrieve a bar of chocolate from his suitcase. “I’m having dinner, Seb!” he sang cheerfully as he resumed the video. He then thought better of it and paused the video again to send a text.

I’m having dinner! -xoxoJM

Good! The leftover Thai or something with the potatoes? -SM

Not telling. -JM

I’m just going to consider it a win that you’re eating something. -SM

Looking at the half-finished chocolate bar pointedly, Jim snickered. “Yes,” he said and started the next video. A young man with a beard was asleep at his computer which was running some sort of analysis. Jim giggled and silently thanked the faeries. Scientists just didn’t understand the value of security. 

Even if he couldn’t tell what was on the screen, it was bound to be interesting. Sebastian broke the man’s neck and then Jim saw him start to work on the computer. Perfect. If the drug studies were on that hard drive, which Jim guessed that they were, he would find a buyer for them. That would make up for being deemed a _soft target_.

That left Nikolai. The little weasel who had drugged him and had planned on raping and interrogating him before probably disposing of him. It was disappointing that there was only one video left. That would mean a short death. Jim gasped when he opened the video and saw an auburn-haired, brown eyed Sebastian wearing cutoffs, a tie-dye tank top, a USMC cap, smiling and waving at the camera. “What are you doing?” Jim grumbled and then finished the chocolate bar. There was nothing pertaining to Nikolai in the pictures. Jim’s eyes narrowed and he picked up his phone.

Explain yourself, Tiger. -JM

I went hiking! -SM

Jim pursed his lips. At least Sebastian’s ability to keep up was still intact, as was his level of sass.

Do you want to die a slow painful death? -JM

Promises, promises! -SM

Don’t ruin my day. -JM

It’s been quite lovely so far. -JM

PFC Teddy LaRoget went hiking with this “college kid” he picked up at breakfast. -SM

Jim smiled as he mentally calculated that based on the schedules he’d hacked into, Nikolai had had that particular day off and he was an avid hiker. He guessed that with his looks and acting ability, Nikolai could easily pass himself as a student and that was a relatively safe way to interact with society for him. Such a pity. 

Sounds rewarding. -JM

Too bad about the murder-suicide. -SM

Snickering again, Jim hoped that Seb had managed to get some video of what he’d done.

Can you bring me back some coffee beans? -JM

Have you been good? -SM

This again… I’m always good. -JM

I’m *still* craving cinnamon pancakes though. -JM

When I get back. Promise. -SM

You said that many days ago and I’m *still* waiting. -JM

That’s because you and all your blinding brilliance changed your mind and wanted lemon ginger blueberry oatmeal pancakes the last evening. -SM

Are you arguing with me?! -JM

I’m craving cinnamon pancakes! -JM

I’ll be home soon. Miss you! Cinnamon it is. Even if you change your mind! -SM

Jim chuckled and leaned back against the pillow. He missed Sebastian and couldn’t wait to tell him about his own accomplishments for that day. He knew that he would sleep just a little better knowing that they’d made the world slightly safer for those who couldn’t defend themselves.

*~*~*

( _the following morning_ )  
Seven meetings, one hundred and thirty four reports, and eight phone calls later, Mycroft sat down at his desk. He eyed the untouched package of Kenyan poachers and smiled. “Later,” he said. He leaned back and noted that he didn’t feel the need to force himself to relax. He was already at ease and that felt surprisingly good. Work had never been as satisfying, energizing, and pleasurable as it was that morning. 

Mycroft felt grateful for, instead of entitled to, that feeling. An odd set of circumstances were starting to alter his perspective and perhaps the very core of his being. His life had been in serious peril three times. He’d faced the possibility of never seeing Sherlock or protecting him ever again only to discover the brilliance, competence, and resilience of his younger brother, who, quite possibly, didn’t need protection. Most importantly, he’d met someone who cared about him in a manner that didn’t seem self-serving in any way. He would have to analyze all that as well but at the moment, it felt right and that made him feel something that he might just describe as content.

He’d spent part of the previous night thinking about how to arrange a meeting with Viktor and based on the various scenarios- he’d developed, hundreds of them- he’d come up with a multitude of offers to make to the man. He wanted to see this chance relationship develop, perhaps, into something meaningful for the both of them.

He rose and made himself a cup of chocolate chai tea. Sherlock was unavailable for lunch but Mycroft had insisted that he and the good Dr. Watson have an early dinner with him. Sherlock had grumbled but John had readily agreed for the both of them. He expected the pair sometime in the afternoon to go over a case that he hoped they would take on and then they would proceed to the evening meal. He doubted they would agree to omelets for dinner but perhaps fish and chips would be a reasonable offering.

Almost as soon as his cup of tea had reached the perfect temperature, Anthea buzzed him. Eying the phone skeptically, he wondered what minor disaster would require his attention and if it could potentially wait until after his tea. “Anthea,” he said after pressing the speaker phone. “May I interest you in a cup of tea?” Perhaps he could distract her from transferring the call and avoid being bothered.

“Peter Masterton, CIA, is on the line for you,” she said drily. 

Mycroft cursed silently. He had no desire to speak to anyone in the CIA. “Put him through,” he grumbled and picked up the receiver. “Mr. Masterton,” he greeted and the two exchanged pleasantries, including the man’s concern for Mycroft’s wellbeing and Mycroft’s assurances that he was perfectly fine.

“I am, as a matter of fact, calling about the embassy party in St. Petersburg,” Masterton said.

Mycroft winced and almost growled to himself. He really didn’t want to discuss that topic any further with anyone at all. “While I _was_ in attendance at the embassy party,” he replied and eyed the package of Kenyan poachers. They might need to be renamed to CIA bureaucrats. “It was only for a very short while. I ran into my old friend the consul from the Czech Republic.”

“I see.”

“Did you know that he has an absolutely astonishing collection of insects embedded within amber?” Mycroft smiled. Much as he liked their CIA liaison, Mycroft’s tea was waiting and a discussion of fossilized insects might get rid of the man faster.

“No, I hadn’t heard.”

Mycroft took a quick sip of his tea and then continued, “I stepped out with the chap to see the latest additions to his collection and that’s when the attack happened.”

“Did you by any chance happen to see anything untoward or out of the ordinary before you left?” Masterton asked.

Mycroft smiled. The man was trying to be circumspect and inquire whether Mycroft had noticed any of his operatives. “No,” he answered definitely. “Everything seemed to be in order to me…”

“I see,” Masterton repeated.

Mycroft chuckled. “You’ve said that phrase twice. I don’t think it means what you think it means,” he said smugly. 

Masteron laughed. “Princess Bride.”

“Yes, I have actually seen that one and survived.”

Masterton laughed again. “It’s a classic and everyone should be able to quote that line.”

“That might be the only one I know.”

“Well, listen, that’s a travesty,” Masterton said. “But back to this official business. I’ve got the home office badgering me about that embassy party because something happened. I was hoping that you’d seen something or can help us out with a missing person.”

“You were running an operation,” Mycroft stated.

“It’s not common knowledge,” Masterton replied. “But yes, an important one.”

“I didn’t see any of your known agents,” Mycroft supplied although he started wondering if this had anything to do with Viktor. “Are you looking for something specific? Is there a problem?”

Masterton sighed. “You’ll have to understand that _nothing_ happened.”

“Of course.”

“We were running a test scenario.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. This sounded more and more like the case involving Viktor. “Perhaps, you’d best explain in greater detail.”

“We lost track of a test subject,” Masterton said tightly. “This was one of our best teams. They don’t make mistakes”

“It probably happened during the attack,” Mycroft suggested blandly. “It was rather chaotic from what I’ve heard.”

“They lost him _just before_ the attack,” Masterton explained. “The target was verified to be non-threatening with no associates. It was a simple mission but the team lost him.”

Mycroft felt his ire rise. Definitely Viktor. “Would you like me to see if I can get a copy of the unredacted guest list for you and see if I can discover anything?” he asked, maintaining a polite facade.

“We have that and the target wasn’t on it,” Masterton grumbled. “This is very disturbing because there is no reason for him to be absent. I was hoping you could speak to the German ambassador and perhaps assist us in this.”

“I have a case that I sent stateside last week,” Mycroft said, bluntly changing the subject. “Has there been any progress?” His question was met with silence so he guessed that Masterton hadn’t received anything. “Perhaps you can give me the name of the missing person and I’ll see what I can come up with and then we’ll set a time to discuss _both_ cases.”

“Of course,” Masterton said. “Viktor Chelyadnin; he does some bookkeeping for a few of the Russian and New York City mobsters. I’ll send you want we have. Any information would be greatly appreciated. And should you have agents in the area, retrieval would be optimal. He’s a non-combatant and poses no danger.”

_Viktor Chelyadnin_. Mycroft barely heard what the man said after those two words. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “If you could send me an update on the case I sent you, that would be optimal. I’ll start working on this…” He paused for effect. “...as soon as I get your email.”

“Thank you. I’ll get that to you right away.”

“That would be splendid.” They bid their farewells and Mycroft hung up. He picked up his tea and took a sip. _Viktor Chelyadnin_.


	9. Fried Bananas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Viktor neutralize the CIA inquiries regarding the missing drug test subject and both have dessert. Mycroft gets another unpleasant phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW: family emotional abuse**
> 
> Also, keep in mind that while Mycroft is improving, he's been through a lot in less than a week and is not the most reliable narrator.

**Fried Bananas**

( _a few hours later_ )  
Mycroft leaned back against his chair as he ate the last of the incompetent CIA bureaucrats. _I am compromised_. He stared at the email he’d received a few hours prior from Peter Masterton and took a deep breath. Viktor was innocent in, perhaps not everything, but certainly this. The CIA had planned to drug, rape, interrogate, and most likely, terminate him not for any supposedly valid reason but simply because they’d chosen him as a guinea pig for their drug. _I am going to do what is right_. As far as Mycroft turning over any information on Viktor or Viktor himself, that would never happen. _I will not let that happen_. He picked up his cell.

Good morning/afternoon. I received a call from the CIA just now. -MH

In regards to…? -❤ V

The CIA drug development program. -MH

And you. -MH

They’re concerned that they lost me and they want me apprehended. - V

Mycroft smiled. Viktor not only kept up, but was steps ahead, and was utterly brilliant.

Yes. -MH

Why are you telling me, Mika? -V

Those six words melted Mycroft’s heart. Viktor was not asking for the obvious answer. Even when he could be in danger, Viktor was obviously concerned about Mycroft. He closed his eyes for a few moments and replayed their conversations but mostly focused on Viktor’s melodious voice and the delightful Russian accent. _I am going to do what is right_. 

Opening his eyes, he took a sip of tea and then retrieved another box of gingerbread men. After crossing out “Wall Street Hedge Fund Managers”, he wrote “Bumbling CIA agents” in black marker on the package.

I will not be a party to that. MH

He stared at his text and took another sip of tea. How many times had he been so completely and utterly cavalier with people’s lives even when the cost/benefit analysis indicated that a heavy hand wasn’t warranted? _Moriarty_. Too many times. He forced himself not to think about it and focus on Viktor.

Thank you. -❤ V

Shall I tell them you were one of the incidental casualties in the attack? -MH

LOL. That would be an interesting way to go. -V

I could describe an intricate blood spatter pattern. -MH

It took Viktor a few minutes to respond.

Tell them I am the German ambassador’s secret lover and he was EXCEEDINGLY put out that I was drugged. -❤ V

Mycroft laughed because that solution was perfect. Hiding from the CIA would only protract their search. This was dealing with the issue head on and in a way that they couldn’t force. After a moment, he started to fret. Was Viktor actually sleeping with the German ambassador? Did he have another lover besides his bodyguard? Did he have any ties that Mycroft might be unable to loosen or weaken? He took a deep breath and steeled his will. No, he would find a way no matter what.

That can easily be arranged as long as the ambassador plays along. -MH

He will. He’s really quite nice. He likes to play chess. -V

I enjoy a good match. -MH

So do I although I’m not a master. :D -V

The two of you are equally matched, I’d say. -V

Mycroft smiled. He had a sudden image of sitting outside the family home, with tea and gingerbread biscuits, playing chess with Viktor as the sun faded. It filled him with a sense of _home_.

I’m not having an affair with him by the way. -❤ V

*~*~*

Jim knew that he should have left as early as possible _that_ morning. He wasn’t safe in London. But safe was boring. The waitress at his favorite Asian fusion restaurant set the menu down on the table and waited for him to be seated before taking his drink order, a Thai Bourbon and Ginger. His morning had been almost as satisfying as the day before. 

He’d rescheduled his late afternoon flight to the following evening, arranged for a package to be delivered to Mycroft, and then had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at a private cafe overlooking the Thames. That had been made more pleasurable by the text messages from Mycroft. He had then spent a few more minutes texting, emailing, and finally calling the German ambassador in St. Petersburg to make sure that their story was set.

After breakfast he had carefully, avoiding the CCTV cameras, walked the streets of London and visited his favorite haunts. While Jim loved Estonia and especially his home in Tartu, he missed London. The city had a pulse all its own and he could feel it under his feet and in the air he breathed. The city was alive and he belonged there.

"I long to go through the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes it what it is," he quoted Stoker softly and then smiled as the waitress brought his drink. 

After placing his order, Gunk Tod Kra Tiam, he reviewed his messages and then his cases, which were all progressing splendidly. Nothing new from Sebastian but he wasn’t worried. Sebastian was competent. When his lunch arrived, he switched to scanning the forums where his talents were sought. Much to his dismay, there were no interesting cases.

After finishing his meal, he ordered dessert with tea and decided to text Mycroft. The earlier text from the elder Holmes had been surprising and touching. Jim hadn’t known what to make of it. It was sweet and made him feel… something… something that he didn’t want to analyze.

The German ambassador is extremely upset that his secret boyfriend was inadvertently drugged by incompetent fools. -❤ V

I imagine he would be. -MH

We’re rather fortunate that he didn’t start a diplomatic row. -MH

Those are always so tedious. -V

An utter nuisance and an absolute inconvenience. -MH

Jim giggled. He could see Mycroft saying that all prim and proper and he wondered how he could have previously missed that the man could be ridiculously adorable. Interrogation and torture did tend to put a damper on his observational skills, he supposed. Jim contemplated how much his perception of Mycroft had changed. The Iceman had melted and had left behind a complex and fascinating person.

What did you have for lunch? -V

I haven’t. I had to have another painfully arduous conversation with the CIA buffoon but he completely understands that the German ambassador is perturbed and doesn’t want to have any CIA operatives in his embassy without his permission. -MH

Perfectly understandable! They lower the collective IQ of any room! -V

Indeed. They should be forbidden from intelligent society. -MH

I’m having an early dinner with my brother and his colleague so I may skip lunch. -MH

Noooooooooooooooooooo! -V

He glared at the phone. “Don’t skip lunch if dinner involves that doctor,” he grumbled against his glass and then tapped out a reply.

Never skip lunch. At least have dessert. -❤ V

I suppose there’s never a bad time for tea and dessert. -MH

I had Gunk Tod Kra Tiam and now fried bananas with a sweet szechuan sauce. -V

That sounds rather delectable. Now you’ve gone and made me hungry but I really should hold off until dinner. -MH

I made pirukad last night. -V

Are you Estonian? -MH

Jim smiled. Mycroft Holmes was so very, very clever. 

Not telling! -❤ V

You should try them; they’re quite tasty. I use a beef mushroom filling. -V

I am going to blame you for my hunger between now and dinner. -MH

Jim laughed and then shook his head. His relationship with Mycroft Holmes had changed so much. It was charming and playful and somehow seemed to soothe some of the restlessness in his soul.

I’ll make it up to you! -❤ V

*~*~*

Mycroft had just finished enjoying a Thai tea and not one but three orders of fried bananas with a sweet szechuan glaze that was much hotter than he had expected. They had been coated with sesame seeds and smothered in whipped cream, which had come in its own separate container so it wouldn’t melt. Mycroft had never felt so utterly decadent in his entire life and he’d already made a point not to analyze how Viktor had managed to have a Thai restaurant that was quite far away deliver takeaway. 

It really wasn’t a priority to British interests and his stomach was full therefore Mycroft could choose to ignore it. He was also ignoring the temptation to look at the CCTV cameras or have MI5 swarm that location on the small chance that Viktor was in London. That would be impolite after the man had sent him tea and dessert.

He was expecting Sherlock and John in about two hours and he was sure that they would agree to Thai for dinner. Doctor Watson was military, he probably wasn’t fussy, and Sherlock hadn’t seemed to mind indulging his gastronomic requests the past few days.

The sound of his priority phone ringing interrupted his musings and he glared at the display. Mummy. Well, that was a right bother. He picked up the phone. “Hello, Mother.”

“Oh, Mycroft, have you heard?” Mummy sobbed.

“No, Mummy,” Mycroft answered dryly. He didn’t feel like tolerating his family at the moment. “How are you and do tell me since you will anyways?”

“That’s a bit rude, Mycroft.”

Mycroft started to feel irked. He imagined Viktor holding him and caressing the side of his face. “I’m fine, Mummy,” he said, unprompted. “I’ve had a lovely morning at work where my productivity was stellar; I prevented several crises, and solved one of the defense department's budget conundrums, as well as maneuvered several agents into positions to avert an international crisis and further England’s goals.” He smirked at her silence. “All without terminating any Kenyan poachers or Thai bitcoin scammers and I feel fantastic. I’m also pleased to announce that there have been no, as in zero, as in not a single attempt on my life _today_. Now do tell me how you are and what the news is.”

Mummy gasped audibly. “You are so unspeakably selfish, Mycroft,” she sobbed. “We’ve had a terrible, utterly horrific tragedy and I am so distraught and you just proved how much you only care about yourself.”

Mycroft’s anger rose. Viktor had listened to him, believed him, and hadn’t loathed him for what had happened to him. It galled Mycroft to have proof of how it seemed that his own parents didn't care. He found himself despising his family. “Please relate the tragedy, Mummy,” he said even though he didn’t really want to know. Having the conversation now would end the phone call that much sooner. “I will endeavor to accommodate.”

Mummy was silent for a moment but then spoke softly, “Gerald passed away.” She continued speaking but Mycroft only heard garbled mumblings. Gerald was dead. It was as though a weight was lifted from his back and the shackles that held him bound to hell had suddenly shattered. “Mycroft!” her voice shattered through his thoughts and emotions.

“Yes, Mummy, I’m listening,” Mycroft replied and schooled his thoughts to focus on the conversation.

“Did you hear anything of what I said?”

“Yes, Gerald’s dead,” Mycroft replied and then took a deep breath. “And good riddance as far as I’m concerned.”

The silence was proverbially deafening and finally Mummy gasped. “How dare you? Do you not care about a family member? Family got you where you are today.”

Mycroft took another deep breath and felt all his newfound strength surge within him, with whisperings in a seductive Russian accent. “I dare, Mummy, because he _raped_ me.” He felt Viktor’s arms around him. “I dare because you never believed me and you let him, you gave him every opportunity to do so, over and over.”

“Stop lying, Mycroft!” Mummy screamed. “A decent human being would be grieving a cousin.”

“No, I’m not lying and I won’t stop,” Mycroft answered. “He raped me. Do you understand that? And you let him. You never protected me. You never protected little Sherlock. Gerald was a vile monster. You enabled him to do whatever sick depravities he wished and that makes you no better than him.”

“You are a traitor, Mycroft,” Mummy whispered. “All you want to do is to destroy this family for your own gain, you selfish, inconsiderate, ingrate. You’re mad and we will have you institutionalized like Uncle Rudy unless you stop with this insane, nonsensical, self-absorbed drivel.” Mycroft remained silent. “We expect not another word about this, Mycroft. I’m serious. Or you will pay the consequences for betraying the family honor. We have standards to uphold. People look up to us.” Mycroft remained silent. “And we expect you at the funeral on your absolute best grieving behavior for the tragic loss of poor Gerald.”

“No, Mummy,” Mycroft said firmly and felt Viktor’s arms tightening around him. “Gerald raped me _repeatedly_ and he would have done the same with Sherlock as well if I hadn’t kept myself in his line of sight when I became almost too old for him and Sherlock was at just the right age. I will no longer hide this or abide this as normalcy. I will not celebrate some vacuous family honor that only hides unimaginable horror and I will not be at the funeral.”

“We will destroy you, Mycroft, if you insist on dishonoring the family.”

Mycroft felt Viktor kissing him. “Both Sherlock and I send our regrets for the funeral.” He hung up and closed his eyes.

“Mycroft?” a familiar voice said softly. Sherlock stood at the doorway. His mouth was slightly parted and his eyes showed shock and disbelief.


	10. Reality Checks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Mycroft and Jim have some hard reality thrown at them.

**Reality Checks**

Mycroft, with Sherlock behind him, followed the hostess into the small, somewhat run down Thai restaurant. There didn’t seem to be any private tables available but he wasn’t overly concerned. Sherlock had insisted that they take a car with a driver and a guard, and Mycroft had conceded since he’d never been to that particular restaurant or even that part of London. 

They hadn’t spoken about the call or much of anything on the way there, for which Mycroft was thankful. The silence had been soothing. He didn’t know how much Sherlock had overheard but he was certain that it had been enough and he was not going to escape another unpleasant conversation. After they were seated, the hostess took their drink order. Mycroft ordered a strong Sabai Sabai; he guessed that he’d need it.

“I didn’t think you frequented this part of town,” Sherlock said almost absentmindedly while staring at the menu. “I wouldn’t have guessed you knew about this restaurant especially since you don’t normally care for Thai.”

Sherlock’s words might have seemed innocent to a casual observer but Mycroft knew better. He managed to not wince and then smiled as blandly as possibly. “Have you eaten here before?” he deflected. “Do you have any entrée recommendations?”

Lowering the menu, Sherlock looked intently at Mycroft before speaking. “I have not, even though I’ve walked by here many a time,” he said. “Why here?”

Mycroft frowned but then quickly shifted the expression to pensive with the hope of convincing Sherlock. “It seemed intriguing and, as you know, I’ve been trying new things lately.”

“Bollocks.” Sherlock steepled his fingers and smiled placidly at Mycroft. Mycroft hated that look. “You can’t bloody well expect me to believe that, so out with the truth, Mycroft. I’m inclined to believe that this has something to do with _him_.”

“It might,” Mycroft grumbled.

“Go on.” Sherlock lowered his hands as a waitress brought their drinks and then took their order. Mycroft ordered Gunk Tod Kra Tiam while Sherlock went with Pad Thai. “Your order is suspect as well, Mycroft,” Sherlock continued as soon as she left. “Not only, as I just stated, have you generally avoided Thai food most of your life but you just ordered one of the more obscure dishes outside of Thailand.”

“How do you know that?” Mycroft tried to deflect again as he felt himself start to worry. Sherlock was asking too many pointed questions.

“ _And_ you didn’t bother looking at your menu.”

“What of it?”

“Do you even know what you just ordered?”

“Yes, of course. It’s Fried Mantis Shrimp with Garlic.”

“I know of no restaurant in London that serves it,” Sherlock said. “It was _not_ on this menu. Explain yourself.”

Mycroft sighed with resignation. Sherlock was being persistent and, when he became like that, it was best to humor him somewhat. “Viktor had this dish for lunch.” 

Sherlock’s expression sharpened. “Viktor is _here_. In London?

“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted. “We were texting and lunch came up.”

“Lunch… came up…” Sherlock repeated slowly as though he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “You two chat about lunch?”

“Yes, and Viktor said this is what he was having,” Mycroft explained. “I looked it up and it sounded interesting. You’re right. I had no idea that it was rare but this does seem to be an authentic restaurant. I’m sure plenty of other places have it on request.”

“That may be true,” Sherlock conceded. “What were you and Viktor texting about other than lunch?”

Mycroft’s worry increased. While he found it sweet that his brother was concerned, he didn’t really like Sherlock’s questioning especially when it was about Viktor. “It was casual and mostly about inconsequential things,” Mycroft said and took a deep breath. He supposed that discussing this was better than a conversation about the phone call with Mummy. “He also sent me dessert.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened with shock. “He what?”

“He sent me dessert...” Mycroft wondered if perhaps that deflection had not been wise seeing that Sherlock’s eyes widened with surprise. “I told him that I was skipping lunch because I was having an early dinner with you and Dr. Watson and he said I should eat something and then sent me some dessert. Nothing outrageous.”

“What did he send you?”

Mycroft sighed and fought off the increasing annoyance. “Sherlock, can we just enjoy dinner? You’ve latched on to this like a pitbull terrier. Let it go.”

“What did he send you?”

“Sesame crusted fried bananas with an incredibly spicy szechuan sauce and a thoroughly decadent amount of whipped cream,” Mycroft snapped. “It was utterly delightful and it came from _here_. That’s how I discovered this restaurant. Now can we please drop the conversation?”

“Yes, I suppose,” Sherlock said and waved his hand as though he were dismissing the topic but then his arm flew outward and he grabbed Mycroft’s cell phone from his jacket pocket.

“What are you doing?” Mycroft said as he tried to grab his phone and managed to only swat Sherlock’s arm. “Give that back.”

“In a moment,” Sherlock said coolly as he turned to keep more distance between them and block Mycroft as he tapped in Mycroft’s password. “I have to check something.”

“How do you know my password?”

“Obvious.”

Mycroft’s temper flared and it took all his self control and restraint to not raise his voice. “This is entirely inappropriate, Sherlock. Give me back my phone, _immediately_.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow but continued. Mycroft stood up and lunged for his phone. “Give me a minute,” Sherlock said smugly while turning further to deflect Mycroft. “If you have nothing to hide, then there’s nothing to worry about, is there?”

Mycroft sat and downed his drink while mentally erecting his defenses and preparing himself for any opportunity to retrieve his phone.

“Interesting…” Sherlock mused but then shook his head and turned. He looked at Mycroft as though he had lost his mind. “What the bloody hell are you doing?” 

Mycroft stared at him coldly. “Give me back my phone.”

“Are you out of your bloody mind?”

“Give me back my phone.”

“This is sheer madness,” Sherlock said. “You conspired with a known criminal and lied to the CIA. You _lied_ Mycroft. You lied to the CIA to block their investigation. That’s borderline treason.”

“Give me back my phone.”

“And you’re not concerned that this person, this Russian kidnapper, this spy, who only knows what the bloody hell he is, has your direct cell phone number, knows the physical location of where you work, and is coaching you to do things for his benefit. You’re edging frighteningly close to dereliction of duty,” Sherlock continued. “Do you not see how dangerous this is?”

Mycroft frowned. He hadn’t thought of how Viktor could have found his work address because he’d been so delighted with the delivery. After analyzing everything about Viktor the previous day, he simply trusted the man. Sherlock didn’t understand.

His brother glared at him. “Don’t you see yourself getting trapped by this person? This is ludicrous and you’re acting like a stupid, lovestruck teenager. Do you not understand the implications of what is going on here? Don’t you comprehend that you are in immediate danger with this person?” With the last question, Sherlock pounded the table with the hand holding the phone. 

Mycroft quickly reached out and grabbed his phone. “You don’t understand,” he whispered as he rose to his feet.

“Explain it to me then,” Sherlock ordered.

“Enjoy your dinner, Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly and picked up his coat. “You can have mine as takeaway for dinner tomorrow. You don’t eat enough.” He walked past the table and out the door to the car. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock called out to him but he didn’t care.

*~*~*

Listening to the Bee Gees _You Should Be Dancing_ and dancing in the living room of his flat in Soho while tying his new Alexander McQueen dancing skull tie in preparation for a late dinner, Jim almost didn’t hear the knock on the door. But he did and his relaxed smile turned into a frown. No one should be able to get past the building security to reach this floor.

After pulling out his Beretta from a drawer, he first adjusted his tie and then carefully moved to the security console avoiding the few lines of sight from the windows while trying to come up with all the possible escape scenarios available and hoping he wouldn’t get any blood on his suit. This was Prada, not a work suit.

He tapped the screen and then almost jumped at the image that appeared. Sebastian Moran staring right at the camera and flipping him off. “Well, how did _that happen_?” Jim mused out loud as he waved at the console knowing full well that Sebastian couldn’t see or him him. “Just in time for dinner!”

Before doing anything else, Jim checked all the other cameras and seeing nothing amiss, moved to open the front door. Sebastian, looking quite displeased, stood there with his arms across his chest. “What do you think you’re doing here, Seb?” Jim asked trying to sound upset even though he was inherently pleased. It had been too many years since they had strolled the streets of London together.

“ _Jimmy_ ,” Sebastian growled. “What do you think _you’re_ doing?”

“Going to dinner at the little bistro down the street,” Jim replied. “If you hurry up and change, I might wait for you.”

Sebastian stared at him as though he were insane and then walked past him into the foyer. He dropped his duffle bag in a corner and then ran his fingers through his hair. “I need a beer.”

“There’s no beer,” Jim snapped back. Sebastian’s attitude was starting to annoy him. “I bought a bottle of William Chase so I can make you a gin and tonic while you get changed.”

“We’re not going to dinner,” Sebastian said. “You’re packing while I take a shower and we’re going to the airport.”

“No,” Jim said coolly. His annoyance was becoming anger. No one told him what to do. “I’m going to dinner. I suggest you change your attitude because, right now, you’re drastically reducing your life expectancy.”

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“Don’t talk to me in that tone of voice!” Jim snapped. “You’re pushing it, Moran.”

“I’m pushing it?” Seb exclaimed. “ _I’m_ pushing it?! Don’t you see the danger?”

“Enough, Sebastian.”

“You are out of your fucking mind,” Sebastian continued angrily. “What do you think you’re doing coming to England? _England_ of all places! Where every computer is programmed to sound the alarm if a camera picks up your face even if you’re supposed to be dead. England, the land of MI5, MI6, the Holmes brothers, and every other government official that you’ve screwed over or thumbed your nose at.”

“I’ll remind you that I have been avoiding CCTV cameras my entire adult life,” Jim said in a sing-song voice that had a very sharp edge.

“You also know how to hack into them so if you really wanted to take a stroll down memory lane, you could have done so digitally.”

“Booooring. And I had to take care of something,” Jim snapped..

“Nothing could be important enough to warrant you taking the risk of coming here _alone_!” Sebastian said forcefully. “Don’t you understand?! You’re still classified as a wanted criminal.”

Jim’s expression morphed to a visage of anger. “It was _persssonal_.”

“And what does that mean?” Sebastian asked and then his eyes widened. “Fuck. You took care of Mycroft Holmes’s cousin, didn’t you?” Jim smirked smugly. “You bloody idiot!” Jim glared furiously at him but Sebastian continued. “I know how you take care of things that are _personal_. It’s messy, flashy, and dangerous _and_ you throw all caution to the wind.”

“It worked and nothing happened,” Jim retorted.

“It might have or there may be repercussions coming that you don’t know about _yet_ ,” Seb said a little more evenly but still with a strong tone.

Jim eyes went blank. He needed to get his anger under control. “Are you implying that I have suddenly lost all my ability to plan, prepare, and execute a mission for myself when I do so for a myriad of incompetent lackeys all the time and everything works out perfectly? Are you insinuating that I’m now stupid?”

“No, I’m not,” Sebastian growled. “But you didn’t tell anyone where you were going. You had _no backup_. You didn’t leave much of an electronic trail and you had _no failsafes_. If something had happened, how would I have found you? How long would it have taken me to extricate you from the British government’s clutches without plans? What am I supposed to think?”

Jim’s expression turned murderous and he looked as though he were about to say something but then he went into the kitchen. It was taking all his self control to not start throwing things or pull out his gun and shoot. Sebastian followed. Jim made him a gin sling and then handed it to him. “Go. Take. A. Shower.” His voice was filled with cold fury.

“We’re not done discussing this.” Sebastian took a sip of the drink. “Because that was stupid, Jimmy. You’re not... but this was.”

“Go. Take. A. Shower. Before I shoot you.” 

Sebastian strode away without saying anything else. Jim walked to the living room and sat on the couch and started counting slowly. He had planned this even more meticulously than other cases. Control returned as did his long-banished rebelliousness. Sebastian didn’t understand.

Once he heard the water start running, he disabled the alerts on the alarm system and went out the living room window, closing it behind him. He knew where all the handholds on the corner of the wall were and swiftly made his way down to the ground. Thank goodness it was dark.

After brushing off of his suit, he turned off the locator on his phone, and carefully avoiding the CCTV cameras, hailed a cab. The bistro two blocks down the street was out of consideration. He was dressed too formally for the seedy Irish pub that he owned and served the best fish and chips in London, or most of his old haunts. Besides he was craving something more exotic… like murder.


	11. Gingerbread and Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock talk.

**Gingerbread and Tea**

Mycroft sat down at his desk in his home office with his third drink. He’d written a resignation letter and while he was quite sure that the _scotch draft_ was rife with errors and would need a fair amount of editing, he felt accomplished. And miserable. He loved his position and his work. And lonely. Sherlock had abandoned him as well, it seemed. And sad. He’d never admit to anyone that he’d cried just a little bit, but he had. Little made sense anymore. And he missed Viktor.

He reached for his cell phone but then, for a moment, he wondered if Sherlock wasn’t right and he wasn’t becoming dependent on a spy. Shaking his head, Mycroft knew that could never be the case. He had rigorously analyzed everything the previous day. Sherlock simply didn’t have the same data and hadn’t lived through what he had. He didn’t know Viktor and everything that Viktor had done for him but he could see how Sherlock had reached those conclusions. Closing his eyes, he felt the tears well up again. He was alone, perhaps throwing away the shambles of this life and starting over wasn’t that bad of an idea. 

Knowing that he should eat something, he rose and sauntered to the kitchen. There were no leftovers in the refrigerator. He’d known that but had been hoping that either something would magically appear or inspiration would strike. Neither happened. Mycroft glared at the refrigerator, sipped his scotch, and then pulled his favorite cookbook from the bookshelf. 

Inside was a worn piece of paper. Mycroft’s secret gingerbread recipe. He smiled. It had been over two years since he’d made it. This was certainly the night for gingerbread.

*~*~*

Jim had the cabbie drop him off on a street where a man dressed as he was shouldn’t be venturing. He didn't care. He knew these streets like the back of his hand and he knew the kind of people who lived and worked there. Prada, diamond skull cufflinks, Rolex, custom Italian leather shoes, matching belt, Alexander McQueen tie, and a ruby heart tie pin did not belong on this street and Jim knew it. His head was held high, daring anyone and everyone to challenge him.

*~*~*

Just as Mycroft pulled the pan of gingerbread from the oven, his phone beeped with a priority text. He set the pan on his English lion trivet and then, hoping it was Viktor, looked at the message.

John said I was a prat. -SH

Mycroft rolled his eyes. That was the understatement of the year. “You were,” he muttered under his breath. The doorbell rang. Mycroft glared in the direction of the door and finished his fourth drink. It had been three hours but the fact that he still hadn’t eaten anything besides the batter in the bowl meant that he was quite relaxed.

I’m at your door. -SH

Waiting politely. -SH

Sighing, Mycroft retrieved the tea kettle, filled it with water, and set it to boil. He then pulled out his tea tray, and put all the necessary items on it before his phone chimed once more.

Don’t make me pick the lock. -SH

Mycroft poured himself another drink, put it by his chair in the parlor, and then opened the front door. His brother looked guilty. “Do come in,” Mycroft said and smirked as he saw Sherlock, holding a paper takeaway bag, surreptitiously put the lock pick back in his pocket. He locked the door and motioned for his brother to sit in the parlor. “Let me get the tea.”

As soon as the water boiled, Mycroft poured it into the pot, put his drink on the tray, and then returned to the parlor. Sherlock was seated in a comfortable chair and looked pensive. Mycroft put the tray on the table and picked up his scotch. Sherlock frowned and eyed the drink. “How many have you had?”

Mycroft was in no mood for another argument. “Not nearly enough as evidenced by the fact that I am vertical and coherent. How may I help you Sherlock?” he said. “I am not interested in a continuation of the previous topic of conversation nor any other which might even remotely be considered inflammatory.”

“I came here to apologize,” Sherlock said quietly. “I feel my concerns are valid but…” He took a deep breath. “I did not give you a chance to explain and instead treated you as though you are an imbecile, which you are not.”

Mycroft was surprised to hear those words spoken from his brother. “It certainly felt that way.”

“I would also add that the conversation that I overheard in your office was… extremely upsetting and I was trying to…” Sherlock paused and seemed to struggle.

Mycroft knew exactly what his brother was trying to say and it did not help him feel any more conciliatory. “You were trying to distract yourself by deducting and tearing something to shreds that seemed like low-lying fruit to you,” he said coldly. Sherlock winced. “Regardless of the fact that it was me; I am not a goldfish; and after all, I was the _participant_ in that entire telephone call and bore the brunt of it.”

“I’m sorry, Mycroft,” Sherlock said quietly. “Again, I feel my concerns are valid but I was completely and utterly unfair to you.” Mycroft felt his heart warm a little and those misbegotten tears started to well in his eyes again. “And that’s on top of the ordeal last week and the recent assassination attempts,” Sherlock continued. “I _am_ deeply sorry.”

Mycroft nodded but then smirked. “I’m still grumpy about it but I’ll accept your apology after you leave.” He took a long sip of his drink.

Sherlock frowned. “Have you eaten?” he asked.

“Ethanol is classified as a sugar, a simple carbohydrate no less, so, yes,” Mycroft replied smugly.

“Anything else?”

“Is it really any of your concern?”

Sherlock sighed, picked up the paper bag, and walked to the kitchen. Mycroft considered inquiring what he was doing or simply tossing him out but then decided that finishing his drink was the better course of action. He did so and savored the burn of the scotch going down his throat. Closing his eyes he thought of Viktor holding him and shielding him from everything unpleasant. He lost himself in that sensation and wished he could stay there for a long time.

“I brought your dinner from the restaurant.” Sherlock’s words intruded into his thoughts and Mycroft opened his eyes. He could smell the garlic. Sherlock handed him the plate and a fork. “Thank you,” Mycroft said and put the plate on the table. “I’m not all that hungry though.” He sighed and picked up his drink. “I’ve lost most of my appetite.”

Sherlock lifted a fork of his own. “Let’s share,” he suggested. “I’m intrigued by this dish and I was impressed that you ordered it.” Mycroft snorted even though the aroma was tantalizing. “Come on.” He stood again and gently pried the glass from Mycroft’s hand. “No more tonight.”

Mycroft wanted to argue but Sherlock was right. He had enough in him to be relaxed and still manage the conversation that he was sure was coming. More might make things worse. Surprisingly, they ate in silence and then Sherlock put the plate in the dishwasher. He then brought out two portions of the gingerbread and handed one to Mycroft. “I hope you weren’t planning on bringing this to the office,” he said and tipped his head adorably. “It smelled wonderful and I couldn’t resist.”

“No, that was for me,” Mycroft said and poured tea for both of them. “It’s decaf,” he noted.

“Probably for the best. Do you have any double or clotted cream?”

“No, it was a spur of the moment decision to bake.”

“It’s been too long since you made this,” Sherlock mumbled around a bite of the gingerbread. 

“Indeed.” They resumed eating in silence which Mycroft found enjoyable.

Eventually Sherlock spoke. “What did I miss?”

Mycroft smirked and couldn’t resist teasing his brother. “ _Where_ would you like me to start? There’s just so much.” He could never stay angry with Sherlock for very long.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Him. Viktor.”

Mycroft contemplated continuing to tease Sherlock but then decided against it. “He was drugged, I believe I told you that, as well as the circumstances of my release.” Sherlock nodded. “Viktor then saved me from the second assassination attempt, as you well know.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied and Mycroft saw that his brother wanted to charge right in and say something but was refraining.

Mycroft smiled gently. He did appreciate Sherlock giving him a chance to explain. “We have been texting since I returned to England, mostly benign things.” He held up his hand to stop Sherlock, who, this time, looked like he was about to argue. “His kindness and caring have continued. Now, today, _I_ was contacted by the CIA via telephone regarding their drug testing program.”

“Go on,” Sherlock murmured.

“This is the same drug program where they chose to drug, kidnap, interrogate, potentially rape, and most likely murder, random _innocent_ people simply to test their drug,” Mycroft said. His voice changed tenor and force as his disdain for what could have happened leached through. “They wanted information on Viktor and, should I have knowledge of his whereabouts, to help them apprehend him because he’s a loose end.” Sherlock pursed his lips and frowned.

“After what happened to me, I simply will _not_ abide that and will do nothing to abet it,” Mycroft stated forcefully. “Regardless of how I feel about Viktor himself, as I mentioned at breakfast the other day, this has made me reconsider a lot of the standard government procedures. I feel guilty over actions that I’ve taken in the past where I could have handled things differently.”

Mycroft took a bite to eat. “As you’ve said previously, all I can do is move forward and I _am_ moving forward. I’m choosing to follow my personal integrity instead of blind allegiance to the crown. I would never surrender Viktor to the CIA, with whom we do not have an agreement in this particular instance.”

Sherlock nodded again. “I understand even though I’m not sure I agree, yet,” he said. “And I’m sorry, specifically, for questioning your judgment in this case without giving you a chance to explain. Your reasons are seemingly legitimate and I should never have invalidated you.”

“I do understand your concern,” Mycroft said. “And let me assure you that I have analyzed every piece of data that I have available on Viktor. While I do not believe him to be a simple bookkeeper as he claims, I don’t think he has any nefarious intentions with regards to me or England.”

“Who do you think he is and what do you think he’s doing?”

“Everything can be boiled down to a cost/benefit analysis,” Mycroft stated. “I think you can agree that no potential benefit could come close to having me captive.”

“No doubt there.”

“As for who he is,” Mycroft continued. “Based on the skill set I’ve seen, I would guess that he’s a retired Soviet agent. Something happened to him to give him panic attacks, PTSD, something along those lines that rendered him incapable of continuing in his line of work. He retired to bookkeeping or something equally bland and I’m guessing that he takes on the odd job that isn’t too difficult or threatening just to keep himself entertained. He came across as extremely intelligent.”

“Not a goldfish?”

“No, not a goldfish.”

Sherlock smiled softly and it again warmed Mycroft’s heart. “How do you feel about him otherwise?”

“I’m not answering that,” Mycroft said, remembering the feel of Viktor’s arms around him. “However, I was trying to come up with ways to lure him here. I think he’s 00 material and, even if he can’t do much field work anymore, he can certainly be useful in other ways.”

Sherlock smirked knowingly and he seemed to be reading everything that Mycroft wasn’t saying. “It seems that without any obvious incentive,” Sherlock said. “The man managed to thwart an assassination attempt so he clearly has talents.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said and then took a deep breath. He knew it was impossible to hide things from Sherlock. “I also freely admit to while it being completely immature, potentially irrelevant, and wholly premature… I was entertaining myself by looking at engagement rings earlier today. Briefly, of course.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re out of your bloody mind.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m glad you at least see that it’s premature.”

“Well, yes.” Mycroft took a sip of tea. “I get the feeling, even though I don’t know why, that he’s terrified of showing himself or coming to England.”

“You _are_ the British government, brother mine,” Sherlock said in a slightly patronizing tone. “If he’s worked on missions against England in the past or has even the slightest international entanglements, you could destroy him in an instant.”

“But I wouldn’t.”

“He doesn’t know that,” Sherlock noted. “And people like you, no matter what country they pretend to serve, lie for a living.” He ate the last bite of his dessert. “This was good. You need to make this more often... for me, in case you were wondering.” He set his fork down on his plate. “Viktor has no reason to believe otherwise. He’s probably terrified that you even know he exists.”

Mycroft sank into his mind palace and reviewed all his interactions with Viktor. While he wouldn’t use the word _terrified_ , he definitely could see that Sherlock had a valid point. He also saw how much personal risk there was in everything that Viktor had done and continued to do for him. Shaking his head and walking out of his mind palace, Mycroft made the resolution that his next project would be to make Viktor feel safe.

Sherlock’s words jarred him to consciousness. “I poured you some more tea to warm it up since it looked like you were coming out.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said and reached for his cup.

“I’d like to talk about the other thing,” Sherlock said. Mycroft winced. “I know, after what you’ve been through today, and a lot of that was me, I don’t have the right to ask, but can we?”

Mycroft sighed. There was no escaping this conversation no matter how hard he tried and putting it off did no one any good. “It’s fine,” he whispered.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment as though pondering what to ask. “When did it start?” he finally asked.

“When I was around eight,” Mycroft answered as he steeled his nerves. He didn’t want to go through this but Sherlock was owed answers.

“How long did it continue?”

“He tended to lose interest around secondary school but I…” Mycroft stopped because he wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it without inflicting more pain on Sherlock.

“You kept him occupied until I was out of his desired age range,” Sherlock stated bluntly.

“Yes,” Mycroft answered quietly. “I wanted him to never hurt you. I was trying to protect you.”

“Mummy and Father didn’t believe you?” Sherlock said.

“No, at first they accused me of making up stories and nonsense,” Mycroft said. “Then the accusations became more aggressive; that I was doing this to destroy him and for my own personal gain.” He shook his head as he remembered the pain and feelings of betrayal.

“I have this memory,” Sherlock said. “It was one of the first times that Mummy let me go with you and I was excited, exploring Gerald’s house and all the things he collected, and he had made the orange cake with white icing and candied flowers on it. You didn’t let me have any.”

“He occasionally drugged the sweets.”

“After a while the way he kept looking at me felt odd, although I just wanted some of that cake,” Sherlock continued. Mycroft nodded. “And then you sent me away and I was so angry with you.”

“I remember that day,” Mycroft said quietly. “It was the first day that he showed overt interest in you.” 

Sherlock shuddered. “Afterward, I was always angry that you kept pushing me away even though I thought he was creepy.”

Mycroft didn’t know what to say. He understood how little Sherlock, having no understanding of what was really happening, could have been frustrated by those events. “I do know how to make that particular cake,” he finally blurted out. “I could bake it for you, to make it up to you.”

Sherlock frowned and looked at him questioningly. “Make it up to me?” he repeated. “You were protecting me. I see that know.”

“I could still see that it hurt you.”

“That’s in the past. I wish you had told me sooner but I understand why you didn’t,” Sherlock said. “What did he do to you, Mycroft?” Mycroft remained silent and looked away. He didn’t want to think about it or relive it. “What did he do to you?” Sherlock pressed.

Mycroft shook his head and sighed. Sharing with Viktor had helped tremendously so part of him wanted to believe that telling Sherlock would also be helpful but part of him didn’t want to tarnish the image he hoped Sherlock had of him. “Does it matter?” he asked. “It happened and it’s over.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I’m your brother, this happened to you. And it also happened to you because you were preventing it from happening to me. I need to know. Tell me. Share it with me.”

“Viktor said that.”

“He’s right.”

“You two are awfully alike,” Mycroft grumbled and sipped his tea. 

Sherlock simply smirked. “Tell me.”

“It was so many years ago and time seemed to stop when we were there. He relished tormenting me and making it painful, horrible, repulsive,” Mycroft said and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. He took a deep breath. “It’s really more of what didn’t he do to me.” Sherlock’s eyes widened but he remained still.

Mycroft was silent for a moment before deciding to shift the focus slightly. Sherlock could figure out the rest and there was no need to make it more excruciating with specific details. “He never kissed me.” Mycroft smiled as he thought of the kiss in a car with Viktor. “That’s pretty much the only thing I had left and the kiss with Viktor was my first.” 

“You never kissed anyone prior to this week?”

Shaking his head, Mycroft mouthed the word 'no'. “The thought of anyone touching me is repulsive,” he admitted. “Except for what Viktor did.” Sherlock looked at him questioningly. “He held me, tightly but not too tight. He seemed to wrap himself protectively around me. He held my arms and the side of my face. I remember the pressure of each finger and how comforting it was. It was all caring and kindness. He seemed to instinctively know what would trigger me and what was soothing. And the kiss… well, that was indescribable.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“I think I am the last person on this whole earth to be able to identify being in love with someone,” Mycroft said and smiled sadly. “But based on the evidence, I’d say there’s a likely chance.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’d say you are, and despite my continued misgivings, I’m happy for you. Even if it doesn’t work out, you needed this.” Mycroft nodded. “I will want to meet him if this progresses.”

“Of course.”

“Now, did Mummy actually tell you anything of value or just demand our presence at the funeral?”

“Just the latter and vague news of his passing.”

“Thank you for sending my regrets,” Sherlock said. “She left a similar message on my phone. I think. I deleted it once I heard it was her.” Mycroft snickered. He was going to have to start doing that as well. “But I called Nero.”

“How is our only worthwhile cousin?” Mycroft asked.

“He’s doing well,” Sherlock answered. “He also declined the funeral but he had some interesting information.”

“Yes?”

“Gerald died in a fire,” Sherlock explained. “He fell asleep in his chair while smoking and drinking.”

“Pity that,” Mycroft said drily.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “The interesting part is that even with all the stuff he had everywhere, the place went up like a pile of matchsticks. I almost wonder if I shouldn’t investigate.”

“A definite hazard of hoarding,” Mycroft said breezily although the alarm bells were going off in his mind. He rapidly calculated how much damage a fire started by a dropped cigarette could potentially cause in that particular house with and without an accelerant. “And no, I doubt there’s any need to investigate.

“All that’s left of him is a charred skeleton and there’s but a few timbers left to the house,” Sherlock continued. “ _Everything_ is gone…”


	12. Cinnamon Pancakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim paints the town red and finally gets his cinnamon pancakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just like Mycroft, Jim isn't exactly the most reliable narrator.  
> Quick reminder: Wassily Kabakov, a Russian crime boss, is one of Jim's aliases.

**Cinnamon Pancakes**

No one bothered Jim for the first hour of walking the dark streets and alleys of that part of the city. The predators were getting a bit smarter, Jim mused. He also guessed that, considering how angry he was, even the less intelligent ones were keeping their distance. Walking down a small alley, he rolled his neck and then his shoulder. His face muscles relaxed as he ruffled his hair. His gait changed and his entire demeanor became unsure. Poor Jeremy Doonan, collegiate from Ireland, he was a bit lost and not quite sure how to get back to uni.

Still avoiding all the CCTV cameras, a mugger soon found Jeremy and Jim knifed him. Another one almost cut the Prada. That one he played with for a while before ending it. Feeling better and enjoying the adrenaline, Jim made his way to a pub frequented by military, ex-military, and all sorts of toughs who were looking for work, trying to forget work, or in the mood for trouble. Dangerous, because someone might recognize him. He stayed out of sight until he saw someone that he recognized. Adrien Longfield, former SAS, acquaintance of Sebastian, mercenary, amoral, rapist, and sadistic killer. Wassily Kabakov had used him several times in the past few years but the man always left a distaste in Jim’s mouth. Perfect.

Sweet innocent Jeremy accidentally bumped into Adrien as he was leaving and apologized profusely before explaining how terribly lost he was. Adrien smiled and offered to buy him a drink before walking him home. Jeremy gratefully accepted the offer. When Adrien returned with a rum and coke, Jim easily identified the predatory glimmer in the man’s eyes. Smiling sweetly, Jeremy thanked him again. Fortunately Jim knew how to walk and make it look like he was drinking. Adrien was sharp and observant, an apex predator, but Jim was better.

By the time Adrien had brought the drugged and utterly helpless Jeremy to his flat, Jim had studied the man, knew how he moved, and was more than ready. Adrien never expected to be cuffed with his own zip ties or to be getting a knife to his femoral artery. He did know how to get out of zip ties but not before he was restrained with more of them, in a way that blocked him. His intended victim seemed to have no interest whatsoever in any of his offers.

Ten minutes later Jim smirked. “Not even a drop on the Prada, I haven’t lost my touch ,” he murmured as he turned his phone on, removed the block on Sebastian, and looked around. Adrien’s laptop and phone were valuable sources of information and entertainment for later. He ignored the barrage of texts and call notifications and simply texted the address to Seb.

*~*~*

It was close to one by the time Sherlock left. Mycroft had enjoyed the time they’d spent together even though he was still feeling a bit raw from all of it. After the conversation, they’d had another piece of gingerbread and watched a documentary on marine life and coral. Sherlock had refused the offer of sleeping in the guestroom or taking a government car back to 221B. He had simply stated that he wanted a walk in the crisp night air to think things through and would see Mycroft in the office around mid morning. Mycroft understood that Sherlock still had a lot to process.

He never brought up the topic of his resignation. Although he felt better, Mycroft believed that resigning, no matter how much he hated to leave his work, was the way to proceed. It seemed to be a way to let the chains of his family go and should also make Viktor feel safer _with him_. Picking up his phone, he sent a quick text to see if Viktor was up and then started cleaning the kitchen. It was never too early or too late to clean up.

*~*~*

Jim turned off the alarms to the Soho flat before he and Sebastian entered. The smell of cinnamon wafted in from the kitchen and Jim’s eyes widened. He smiled gleefully but didn’t speak. Sebastian set his backpack in a corner and then moved to the kitchen to wash his hands while Jim went to the bedroom and chanaged

They had worked in silence in Adrien’s apartment, speaking only as needed to facilitate cleaning up and taking the hard drive and important papers. During the walk home, Jim had slowly started relating his walking tour of the city and soon the tension between the two had eased. 

“Feeling better?” Sebastian asked when Jim reappeared wearing jeans and a white shirt. He had lost the air of Moriarty and was more himself.

Jim looked at Seb intently and decided not to delay the inevitable. “You were right,” he said. Seb arched an eyebrow. “Completely and utterly right.” Seb nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t speak. Jim was relieved because Seb could certainly rub it in. “It was impetuous and irresponsible of me to come here without letting you know.”

Sebastian nodded. “I _do_ know how important this was to you.” Jim sighed. “I worry about you when you put yourself in danger _without_ backup or failsafes. I know you researched and planned everything even more so than you usually do because _you_ were going to do it yourself and it was something that hit close to home but there was simply no reason not to wait a few days for me.”

Jim shook his head and started making tea. He was still upset and angry at how everything had unfolded. Sebastian had taken the joy and feeling of accomplishment out of it. He pursed his lips and refused to speak.

“I made cinnamon pancakes,” Sebastian finally said. “I’m guessing you didn’t have dinner. I could make some scrambled eggs or over easy?”

“I can make omelets,” Jim said quietly. He knew they would work through this even though there was a lot of awkwardness at the moment. “I’m in the mood for caviar, lox, avocado, cream cheese, and cracked pepper omelets.”

“That sounds perfect and utterly indulgent. No cinnamon pancake should live without _that_.”

“Agreed, it’s time to murder some food,” Jim said. “And if you ever tell me what to do _ever again_ , it’ll be a slow and painful death for you.”

“I’m sorry,” Seb said as Jim poured the the water for the tea. “I was worried, angry, frustrated, and didn’t think everything through. I kept imagining _him_ capturing you and then having no idea how the bloody hell to get you out.”

Jim frowned. “I’m sure I could have gotten at least one pass if worse came to worst or you would have figured something out.” Sebastian snorted. “Are you okay with him?” Jim asked. “I mean…”

“I’m starving. Hurry up and make those omelets, cute, short, and Irish,” Sebastian said and smirked. “Yeah, I called you short, make something of it. And I’m fine with you and him. Maybe he can help you with what I can’t. Maybe we all can help each other, together.” Jim rolled his eyes. “And I am not against threesomes or foursomes either.”

“Foursomes?”

“Sherlock… there is nothing about that man that I don’t want to fuck.”

“One of these days, I _will_ kill you, Moran.”

*~*~*

Jim flopped on the couch and started deleting all of Seb’s frantic texts from his phone. He did feel guilty about worrying Sebastian the way it seemed he had. He made a mental note to figure out a way to make it up to him. Sherlock bound in red ribbon and a bow?! No. While he might have forgiven Sherlock for turning him over to Mycroft, he hadn’t forgotten. At the end he saw a text from half an hour prior from Mycroft.

Are you awake? -MH

Jim smiled and, not for the first time, wondered what he was doing, no idea, and where this was going, somewhere, and fairly quickly at that. He typed a reply.

I am now! Isn’t it a bit late for you?! -❤ V

He smiled when Mycroft replied almost immediately but then fretted that Mycroft was up that late. It was just past two and the man surely had to work the following morning.

I had a rough evening and am just now finishing up. -MH

May I ask what time it is for you? -MH

Jim chuckled. Mycroft was trying so very hard to not seem like he wanted more information on Viktor when it was obvious that he did.

No!!! -V

Not unless you bribe me properly! -V

How may I bribe you? -MH

Properly, of course. -MH

Jim had to laugh. Mycroft was _always_ proper.

What are your thoughts on sexting?!?! -❤ V

Truthfully, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. -MH

Jim smirked. Dear sweet Mycroft.

What happened? Do I need to kill someone? -V

No. I got into an argument with my little brother. -MH

Oh no! Was it bad? -V

He was worried about me. -MH

But it was painful. Even though we talked it through, I’m not quite fine. -MH

I adore him and worry so much about him even though I shouldn’t. -MH

Jim glared at his phone and wondered what exactly Sherlock had done. He typed a very Viktor reply instead of something snarky.

I’m sorry. *hugs* What can I do to help? -❤ V

Texting you is helping. I do need to try and sleep though. Work tomorrow. -MH

Jim’s eyes widened at that reply. It somehow saddened him. 

Would you like more Russian music? -V

I have a playlist that helps me sleep. -V

I think that would help. It did last time. -MH

Jim smiled and started searching through his music.

Maybe we can chat more tomorrow…? I’d like to know how you’re doing. -MH

Scrunching up his nose, Jim smiled wickedly. His package would arrive and he was certain Mycroft would be texting him. He sent the playlist.

Here you go. And yes, of course! I’m bored. -V

That’s a travesty. My brother becomes dangerously destructive under the effects of ennui. -MH

“Understatement of the year,” Jim muttered half under his breath and then laughed at all the alliteration that Mycroft had managed to use in one sentence.

Thank you. -MH

Text me if that doesn’t work, okay? -V

I will. Thank you again. -MH

Jim smiled softly and he leaned his head against the sofa while wondering, once again, what they were doing and if it was headed towards anywhere other than disaster. “Good night, Mycroft,” he whispered and then tapped out the same message.

Good night. Rest well. -❤ V

Jim rose and retrieved what little was left of the cinnamon pancakes. He supposed he should rest as well. It had been a long and difficult few days and tomorrow would probably be no easier.


	13. Guardian Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft receives a gift from Viktor and things get complicated.

**Guardian Angel**

( _the following day_ )  
Mycroft returned to the office, made himself some chocolate chai tea, and then sat down at his desk. He was tired and he hadn’t had the chance to edit his resignation letter but the morning had gone well. The meeting with the technical operations and surveillance teams had gone better than expected, two 00s had returned from successful missions with valuable information for both MI5 and MI6, and Sherlock had stopped by to check on him but he’d also taken one of Mycroft’s cases. Mycroft deemed the morning a complete success.

After skimming through all the newest messages, he started working on several NHS analyses for Parliament. That wasn’t really his department but as his computational skills were far superior to anyone else’s, he had offered to run them and soon lost himself in maximizing the efficiency of the process. The ringing of his phone jarred him out of his momentum. It was Anthea.

“Anthea.”

“I have a package here for you?”

Mycroft frowned. Usually that sort of message came with more information. “Yes?”

“It was delivered by one of the known and cleared carriers,” Anthea said. “No return address. I had it x-rayed and tested. It seems to be papers and CDs and one of those sets of wooden Russian nesting dolls.”

Mycroft took a deep breath and wondered if it was from Viktor. No one else would have reason to send him anything from Russia. It _had_ to be Viktor or another assassination attempt. “Was it fully tested?”

“Yes,” Anthea replied.

“Well, send it in,” Mycroft said while wondering what Viktor could possibly have sent or how he knew which courier to use. He decided not to ponder the last part very much. A security guard appeared with a fairly good sized box. “Interesting,” Mycroft murmured to himself and then dismissed the guard. He retrieved a pair of scissors from his desk and carefully cut the packing tape. Viktor must have used the entire roll.

The box contained a gift-wrapped package, which had to be the nesting dolls. There was a tag with a red glitter heart and a V inside it. Mycroft smiled. He would somehow have to find a way to send Viktor a gift if he couldn’t lure the man to London.

Setting the gift aside, he started looking at the massive collection of papers, CDs, and photographs in the box and his mind froze. Elation turned to horror. The materials had belonged to Gerald. Photographs and CDs of children, him, the neighbors, other children that he knew. Lists of conquests, websites, and wish lists that included Sherlock and other names, some of which had been crossed off. Sherlock’s name hadn’t been crossed off, much to his relief. 

He forced himself to take a deep breath and continue. Each piece of paper or photograph was more horrific than the previous one but with each new item came the deepening realization that not only was Viktor not a simple bookkeeper, he was also a killer. Intellectually he knew that high-level agents killed if needed but it was hard to reconcile that concept with what he knew of the man.

Mycroft felt his stomach turn and his horror turned into panic as another realization hit him. The contents of the box could destroy him, everything that he had achieved, Sherlock, and the entire Holmes family. While everything in Gerald’s house might have burned, the box held the evidence of his cousin’s actions. It spanned over forty years and two or three generations of children. Whoever had that information could easily control him.

Taking another deep breath, Mycroft picked up his cell and called the number he’d only ever texted before. When he heard the smooth melodious Russian accent, he almost melted despite the fear of what the man could do to him.

“Hello, Mika,” Viktor said. 

“Viktor,” Mycroft whispered as the hand that was holding the phone started trembling. All the memories of Viktor holding and comforting him flooded his mind and they were in sharp juxtaposition to the fear that he felt because of what Viktor could do. 

“You weren’t supposed to call me or contact me but I suppose this means that you received my gift.”

Mycroft nodded silently and tried to organize his thoughts and settle his emotions. He’d wanted to hear Viktor’s voice ever since his release and return to London but now he was terrified of what could be happening and couldn’t find any words. 

“Mika? Are you alright?”

Mycroft heard the concern in Viktor’s voice and a bit of rational thought returned. “What do you want me to do?” he finally asked.

“With the things inside the box?” Viktor asked. “The wrapped gift is for you. As far as the other things, do with them as…” His voice trailed off. “Oh! Do you think I’m blackmailing you?” Mycroft remained silent. The surprise in Viktor’s voice seemed genuine but a spy of the level he deemed Viktor to be could certainly pull it off.

“No. No, no no no, _no_ ,” Viktor said. “I don’t want anything from you. I sent you all that so you could do what you need to do with it to get closure.”

Mycroft found himself desperately wanting to believe the earnestness in Viktor’s voice but he also kept hearing Sherlock argue that he was being trapped by a clever spy. Mycroft sighed and spoke with resignation, “I don’t want this relationship, whatever it ends up being, to be about lies. If you have any sort of design on me with this, please just tell me now and I will-”

“Stop,” Viktor interrupted. “I would never use _this_ against you. Maybe if you had an affair with an MP’s wife or husband or something like that, I’d see if I could get dinner or another dance out of you, but this... _no_.” Mycroft closed his eyes at the strength that appeared in Viktor’s voice. It was pure steel but completely drenched with honesty.

“Everything that happened to you, happened to me, plus a lot of other things,” Viktor continued. “This was my nightmare as much as it was yours. This is something I would never use against you or anyone else.”

“I want to believe you,” Mycroft whispered. 

Viktor sighed and his voice became gentle again. “Those are the _originals_.” 

Those four words cemented everything that Viktor had said as factual. Mycroft relaxed and a faint smile appeared on his lips as more facts fell into place. With modern technology, good copies could certainly be made but it would be obvious with the resources available to the government. 

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said quietly while the details organized themselves into coherent analyses in his mind. “I had seen that but the significance momentarily escaped me. I worried because of all the implications for someone in my position.” There was still the chance that Viktor was truly a spy and playing an exceedingly long game but Mycroft didn’t think that was the case. 

“I imagine, as well, that the contents were disturbing and that had to affect you,” Viktor said and Mycroft again found himself melting. “Think about it for a few days but, truthfully, I sent it to you so that you could regain your personal authority in some small way. Do what you feel needs to be done.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said and suddenly one last realization came to him. He took another deep breath. “You’re still in London, or England.” Viktor’s silence cleared any doubts. “I need to see you.”

“You’re mistaken. I’m not,” Viktor said but Mycroft heard the barest hints of shakiness.

“You are,” Mycroft stated. “I can hear it in your voice and judging by the timing of our recent texts, you _are_ still here. I mean you no harm, and I need to see you.”

“It’s better if we don’t.”

“It’s safe,” Mycroft said. “And while what we have now is lovely, it could be even better. You have _nothing_ to fear from me.”

“I do. You have all the power if we meet,” Viktor disagreed.

“I would never use it against you.”

“You can snap your fingers and have me put away for life, or worse. I can’t live through that again. I won’t survive.”

Those words pained Mycroft and he, yet again wondered what had happened to Viktor. He could certainly understand Viktor’s fear but he was a diplomat and he knew that he could somehow find a way to convince the other man. 

Mycroft’s life seemed bleak and empty now and he wanted more than just a memory of one day of comfort and not being alone. Viktor had touched him in ways that he had never thought possible and that he didn’t quite understand. “I’m going to echo your words,” he said. The thought that Viktor was close, in London, and they wouldn’t get together seemed like anathema to him. “I would never do that to you.”

“I have no way of knowing that.”

Mycroft inhaled sharply. He started to feel Viktor slipping away and he couldn’t let that happen. “I promise. I don’t want to lose you.”

“I want to believe you,” Viktor admitted much as Mycroft had a few minutes prior.

“I will never hurt you,” Mycroft said as firmly as he could while trying to convey how he felt about Viktor. “You’ve somehow become my guardian angel. I don’t want to lose you.”

“If we meet and things go poorly, we’ll lose everything. What we have now is better than nothing”

“I will never hurt you. No matter what. That’s a promise.” Viktor remained silent again so Mycroft added, “I made gingerbread last night and there’s half a pan left.”

Viktor laughed softly. “You expect to lure me there with gingerbread?”

“Yes, absolutely. It’s my secret recipe.”

“I suppose I can’t say no to that, can I?” Viktor said.

“No.”

“What time?”

Mycroft relaxed and fought down the elation. “Tea time,” he replied. “Do you know- I suppose you know where I live.”

“Yes, I do...”

Mycroft heard the hesitation and smiled. He felt that he could read Viktor accurately and there was no sign of guile or subterfuge. “See you promptly at tea time…”


	14. Preparations and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Jim prepare for their rendezvous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick reminder that neither Jim nor Mycroft are functioning at 100% after the events of the past week.

**Preparations and Revelations**

After hanging up, Mycroft buried his face in his hands and tried to relax. Going through the contents of the box and the ensuing conversation with Viktor had been a rollercoaster of emotions and he still felt himself shaking a bit. The end result, however, exhilarated him. Viktor had agreed to come to tea. They would be face to face. He’d be able to touch the man again. 

Mycroft reached for his pen and a pad of paper and immediately started making a list of everything that he would need to clean. Sherlock always insisted that his home was disagreeably clean but Mycroft didn’t want to take any chances. Viktor had to be impressed.

He’d made it halfway through all the rooms of his house, when the computer chimed indicating that he had a priority email from someone in British Intelligence. Mycroft frowned. It would have to wait until this list and every subsequent list was complete. Making lists helped focus his mind. 

After housework, he moved on to groceries. Brandied Crème Anglaise would complement the gingerbread perfectly and he didn’t need to buy any ingredients to make it. Deciding on something for dinner proved to be a bit more problematic. It needed to be just right. Mycroft was not letting Viktor escape until _after_ dinner although he hoped that Viktor would want to stay longer than that. He wanted to hold Viktor and perhaps fall asleep in each other’s arms. 

It took Mycroft five minutes to settle on French omelets with shiitake mushrooms, gruyere, and tarragon. That would show Viktor that he remembered and cared even though he guessed that his probably wouldn’t be as good as Viktor’s. Baking was more Mycroft’s strong suit.

As he was finishing the second list, Mycroft noticed that his tea had cooled. That was a travesty. Perhaps some gingerbread criminals were due for execution as well. As he was reheating the tea, Mycroft realized that he’d not opened the actual gift from Viktor. Another travesty. It was festively wrapped and beribboned. As he carefully started cutting the tape so that he wouldn’t rip the paper, he wondered if Viktor owned shares of a tape company. The man certainly knew how to secure a gift.

As he had been informed, it was a set of Matryoshka dolls, divided in two. Mycroft studied the largest one. She wore an intricately designed sarafan, was obviously hand painted in shades of blue, white, and silver, and was signed by the artist. Smiling at the gesture, Mycroft started opening them. Each doll was different but had the same level of intricacy and beauty.

When Mycroft reached the last of the larger ones, he expected it to be empty but the weight didn’t seem right and he couldn’t resist a joyful smile. Viktor had divided them so that he could add something extra. Mycroft chuckled. Perhaps British Intelligence could find a way to use Matryoshka dolls for sensitive information. Remembering that he had a priority email, he turned and glared at his computer. “Soon…” he muttered under his breath and then took a sip of tea before opening the doll.

Inside was something wrapped in black velvet but what caught Mycroft’s immediate attention was that this doll’s interior was coated with lead, which had blocked the x-rays. Interesting. He pulled out the contents and then carefully unwrapped it. The black velvet cloth felt smooth against his fingers. Inside was an elegant Böker pocket knife. The body was made from one piece of nickel silver with mother of pearl scales. Mycroft opened it and smiled when he saw that it had a Damascus blade. A beautiful but deadly knife.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath while more deductions fell into place. Mycroft picked up his phone and typed out a message.

Did he suffer? -MH

Yes. -V

Thank you. -MH

❤ ❤ ❤ -V

Mycroft smiled. He supposed that he should be horrified but he wasn’t. Instead he felt a little bit of satisfaction. He took another sip of tea, exhaled, and suddenly felt as though a huge weight had been lifted. Tucking the knife into his pocket, he murmured, “Thank you.” Again he remembered how Viktor had held and comforted him. A sense of peace settled over him and he relaxed into his chair. While the memories would always be there, Gerald was gone and could no longer hurt him, Sherlock, or anyone else. 

Turning to look at the box of evidence, Mycroft knew what he had to do for himself and for each and every one of Gerald’s victims. He picked up the office phone and called DI Greg Lestrade.

*~*~*

“You did _what_?” Sebastian asked incredulously.

“You heard me,” Jim said sweetly while holding the refrigerator door open and eyeing the contents. “I am out of pancakes.”

“You are out of your _mind_.” Sebastian frowned before adding, “Jimmy.”

Jim decided that Sebastian, despite being surprised, was taking the announcement rather well. “It’ll be fine.”

“No,” Sebastian simply said.

“No, what?” Jim closed the refrigerator door and opened a cabinet door. It was relatively empty of sweets. “I’m also out of biscuits and chocolate.”

“Just, _no_ ,” Sebastian said a little more forcefully and then held up his hand. “And before you get upset because you think I’m telling what to do. I’m not. I’m telling you what _not_ to do.” Jim glared at him. “Somebody has to, because it’s a horrible idea, and it’s not going to end well.” Jim’s expression turned murderous.

Sebastian sighed and shook his head. “Why don’t you sit and I’ll make you something while you explain it all to me and hopefully change your mind,” he suggested.

“I don’t have time,” Jim argued. “I need a snack now and then I have to go to the store. Mycroft probably doesn’t have time to get stuff together for dinner and I want steak.”

“So, you’re going to Mycroft Holmes’s house for gingerbread and tea, and you’re planning to cook a steak dinner-”

“Oh, and I need a really good bottle of red wine,” Jim interrupted.

“I’m contemplating tying you to the bed and not letting you out until you start making some sense,” Sebastian said sternly. Jim bared his teeth and growled. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s either a trap or he’s going to take one look at you and have you locked up before you can say his entire name.” Jim growled. “And that’s if you’re lucky. He might just shoot you on sight.”

“You are exaggerating,” Jim said. “He’s not going to do that. Any of that.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do.”

“Hold on, don’t go anywhere,” Sebastian said. He went to the bedroom and returned with a box of custard crèmes. “Here. I picked these up just in case there was another emergency.”

“The emergency is going to be you bleeding out,” Jim grumbled but accepted the package of biscuits. “Thank you.” He moved to the living room and sat down.

Sebastian followed but leaned against the wall. “Let’s go through this slowly, okay? I don’t think either one of us wants another disagreement.”

“Bleeding out,” Jim mumbled around a biscuit.

“What are the backups in this plan?” Sebastian asked. Jim ate another biscuit. “Right, no backups.” Jim shook his head. Seb looked at him questioningly.

Jim finished eating then said, “ _You_ are my backup, Moran.”

“Sure,” Sebastian agreed. “I’ll tag along and if he gets within five feet of you, I’ll shoot him.”

“ _Sebastian_!”

“Jimmy, this is Mycroft fucking Holmes,” Sebastian said with exasperation. “He’s the fucking British government. You would have been dead last time if you didn’t have all the plans that you did. Why can’t you see this?”

“Because it’s different this time,” Jim said and then held up one finger indicating that he was thinking. After eating another biscuit, he continued, “You’ll come with me. If you see anything suspicious, you either come in and get me or, if it’s already gone south, kidnap Sherlock.” He tipped his head and smiled adorably. “And Mycroft getting within five feet of me does _not_ count as enough of an emergency for you to kidnap Sherlock, no matter how much you want him.” Sebastian snickered. Jim continued, “Sherlock will forever be a failsafe against Mycroft.”

“It worked last time,” Sebastian said. “I can live with that. I’m not all that convinced about me being outside while you’re inside and I can’t see you. That’s just not good enough.”

Jim nodded. “I’ll take a panic button and text you every thirty minutes.”

“I suppose that might work,” Seb conceded. “Other failsafes?”

“You’re being difficult, Sergei,” Jim grumbled. 

“As I’ve said innumerable times, this is Mycroft Holmes,” Sebastian said. “What about the material you sent him?

Jim ate another biscuit. “No, I’d rather not use that unless it’s an absolute emergency.”

“Did you make copies?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Reasons. Nothing is going to happen. I know it.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he shot you for just approaching his house without even letting you get a cute little Russian-accented ‘hiiiii’ out.”

“I’ve got that one covered,” Jim said. “Can you be satisfied now? Before I see fit to exsanguinate you. Slowly. I need to go to the store and then I have to shower and change.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “How about I go shopping for you and you type out a bunch of plans for _every_ eventuality, like last time?”

“I suppose… but… nothing is going to happen,” Jim grumbled and then held up the package of custard crèmes. “I’ll need more of these. They were good.” His expression turned pensive. “Superior wine, everything for a superb filet mignon dinner, and a small bouquet of exotic and unusual flowers.”

“Sure, fine, whatever. I know how to shop for you,” Sebastian said. “And if I don’t like the list of backups, failsafes, and all sorts of general plans, I’m still tying you to the bed, eating all the biscuits, and not letting you free...”

*~*~*

Mycroft’s office line rang just as he closed the door behind DI Lestrade, who had taken the box along with Mycroft’s childhood nightmares with him. He’d given the inspector an honest statement and requested that the other victims be treated with respect. Lestrade had agreed and then had offered Mycroft companionship and an ear if he ever needed to discuss what had happened in greater detail. 

Mycroft had been touched. And pleased. He already knew that he’d chosen well when he’d asked the man to watch over Sherlock and provide his little brother with case work but the extent of Lestrade’s kindness and generosity impressed him even more that day. He absentmindedly wondered if the man wouldn’t mind being his friend. It seemed like a nice idea although Mycroft had no idea what they could possibly have in common besides fretting over Sherlock.

“Bother,” he grumbled and picked up the line. He saw that it was Anthea but she was surely calling to inform him of another emergency that supposedly needed tending to by no one other than himself. Sherlock had agreed to come in for half a day and Mycroft hoped that whatever crisis it was could wait. “Yes, Anthea,” he said.

She politely informed him that one of the higher up MI6 agents, a Mr. Something-Something-Chase, wanted to speak to him about a very important case that he’d emailed Mycroft about. Mycroft rolled his eyes. It was probably that British Intelligence email that he’d been ignoring, along with everything else in his inbox. Sherlock was due to arrive in twenty minutes and Mycroft was cheered by the thought that his inbox was going to be his little brother’s problem shortly. He had more important things to deal with. Viktor.

He had Anthea put the man through while eyeing his currently empty mug of tea and pondering the benefits of making one more cup of chocolate chai. It could bring him luck in his endeavors with Viktor. The man blathered on about some ex-SAS mercenary, that was on both MI5 and MI6’s watch list being found dead in his apartment with no signs of forced entry. Rolling his eyes, he requested details. Mr. Something-Something-Incompetent mentioned his email. Mycroft parried by pointing out his busy schedule and again posed his request for details but also asked if the matter could wait until he had the time to devote his full and unadulterated attention to it.

The man started listing a cacophony of useless details. Mycroft found a package of Peruvian counterfeiters and started quietly nibbling. Somewhere in the endless blather, Mycroft keyed in on a few words: missing hard drive, missing phone, and a significant amount of gamma hydroxybutyric acid in the safe along with numerous weapons, which Mycroft would have expected. He told the agent to be silent for a moment as he analyzed.

After eating another counterfeiter, he informed Mr. Goldfish that the two likeliest scenarios were that the victim had possessed something of value on his hard drive, which would require an in depth analysis of his latest locations, employers etc… and Mycroft would need to examine the man’s entire file, or he had attempted to date rape the wrong victim and the missing electronics were red herrings. Mycroft then politely excused himself with a promise to follow up the following day and a request for any further information to be sent via email not phone or text as he would be out of the office. Mr. Something-Incompetent-Nuisance reluctantly agreed and Mycroft quickly hung up.

“Goldfish,” he muttered to himself as he started writing Sherlock a quick note. After that annoying call, he wanted to leave immediately so that he could take his time at the store and then have enough time to prepare the house for Viktor. Sherlock could text him if he had questions, not that Sherlock ever did. Mycroft smiled lovingly thinking about how truly wonderful and brilliant Sherlock was. He made sure to apologize for not being there to delegate or explain things properly.

*~*~*

The sound of the doorbell startled Mycroft even though he had been anxiously awaiting it. He’d ascertained that everything was ready and perfect at least five times already and he’d been working on the sixth walk-through of his home. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the Waterford Lismore Essence bud vase that held a single red rose.

Walking to the security system, he quickly turned it on and looked at the images from the cameras. There was only one man, wearing a beautifully decorated and feathered black _Colombina_ style mask, a simple white silk button shirt, and French gray trousers, at his door. He carried a grocery bag and a bouquet of flowers.

Mycroft’s heart was pounding in anticipation by the time he was opening the door. The man smiled although Mycroft could see some hesitation. There was something uncannily familiar about him that he couldn’t place. “Hello, Mika,” Viktor said and Mycroft felt himself melting yet again. He’d recognize that melodious voice with its smooth, soothing, lilting Russian accent anywhere. Mycroft found that he couldn’t quite decide what to say first. Instead he held out the vase.

Smiling sweetly, Viktor murmured, “Thank you.” He set the bag of groceries down, took the vase from Mycroft, and then held out the bouquet. Mycroft noted that they were all rare unusual flowers assembled to create a delicately elegant display. And none of them were poisonous. Words still escaped him as he took the bouquet. 

Viktor tipped his head adorably. “May I kiss you?” he asked. “It was rude of me to do so without permission the last time although we can probably blame that on my being drugged out of my mind.”

Mycroft chuckled and then shyly pulled the smaller man into his arms. “I’ve missed you,” he said before their lips touched and he shuddered. Memories of the previous time returned as their mouths parted and they deepened the kiss. Mycroft felt nothing but bliss. _This_ was perfection.

“I missed you too,” Viktor said when the kiss ended but he didn’t pull out of Mycroft’s arms and instead leaned his head against Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft sighed and lifted his free hand to remove the mask. “No, wait,” Viktor said. “One more kiss.”

Mycroft kissed the top of Viktor’s head to somehow try and reassure him. “Of course.”

“Promise me,” Viktor said as he pulled his head up. Mycroft heard the tinges of fear and that saddened him. “Promise me that…” Viktor continued carefully, “If things don’t work out, you’ll let me walk away.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Mycroft said. “But I do promise.” Viktor pushed up on his toes and kissed him and, again, Mycroft was lost in the sheer perfection of kissing the man. Closing his eyes, he savored every sensation and held Viktor tightly. Neither wanted it to end. Eventually his hand moved to the mask and he carefully slipped it off. Feeling Viktor inhale sharply and press his hand against his chest, Mycroft opened his eyes.

 _James Moriarty_. Alive. Shock and fear reverberated through him. He was holding one of the most dangerous men in the world in his arms. The shock and fear turned to horror. He’d been kissing the man who had been the single greatest threat to Sherlock. _James Moriarty_. Mycroft shoved him away forcefully.


	15. Tea Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Jim have tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that I use { and } when a character is speaking in a foreign language.

**Tea Time**

Jim hadn’t expected to be shoved but he’d frequently been attacked and pushed around as a child so he instinctively moved with the momentum and managed to keep his balance without dropping the crystal vase. Quickly calculating where Sebastian was likely to be, he spun to block Seb’s line of sight. That shove might be considered worthy of a reaction by his unconvinced and somewhat paranoid sniper.

“Well, that wasn’t what I expected,” Jim said, “But you’re a step ahead of me. I nearly cracked my head open shoving myself away from you in the car when _I_ found out.” Noticing Mycroft leaning against the door frame and breathing rapidly, he frowned and focused on the man. Pale. Unsteady. Hyperventilating. Not focused. “Fuck,” he growled as he recognized the signs of a panic attack.

Jim rushed forward as Mycroft’s eyes closed and he started to fall. He circled his arm around Mycroft’s waist and pulled him against his body before easing them both to the ground. Swearing in Russian, he made sure that Mycroft was breathing and safe from further injury and then set the vase down as far away as he could. He stared off in the distance where he thought Sebastian should be. No sign of him. Jim pulled out his phone, glared at it, and typed out a text.

A little help here! -JM

The reply was almost instantaneous.

Problems? -SM

Obviously. -JM

But I thought you liked it when the cute ones swooned and *fell* for you. -SM

Glaring again in the direction where Sebastian should be, he called the number while putting his other hand on Mycroft’s chest so that he could monitor respirations. “Moran,” he growled when Seb answered. “Get your arse over here _now_.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Sebastian replied cheerfully. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“I won’t be much help then,” Sebastian replied. 

Rolling his eyes, Jim hung up but in less than a minute, Seb appeared. Jim looked up and he shot Sebastian a dismayed grin. “I think you were over-worried for no reason, _Sergei_ ,” he said, indicating that Seb should maintain that identity. “Let’s get him to the couch.”

“{We could kidnap him again,}” Seb suggested in Russian and then laughed when Jim smiled at the idea. “{Drop him into the Thames. End of problem.}”

“{Stop it,}” Jim said. “{Even though kidnapping him sounds like more than just a teensy bit of fun, we don’t have an intelligent place to bring him.}”

“{I repeat: the Thames.}” Sebastian easily picked up Mycroft and slung the man over his shoulder before offering Jim a hand up. 

“{The places that I have left, I want to keep. Mycroft finding out about them is incompatible with that.}” Jim carefully picked up the vase and drew his finger on the edge of one petal. “{Isn’t it beautiful?}”

“{The Thames.}”

“{No, too wet,}” Jim said as they walked inside. The smell of gingerbread wafted from the kitchen. “{That smells really good,}” Jim said while looking around. “{It’s been ages since I’ve been here.}”

“{And that’s good,}” Sebastian said while laying Mycroft down on the couch. He then removed the knife and panic button from Mycroft’s pockets. “{Sneaking into Mycroft Holmes’s house is generally a bad idea and especially so when you’re supposed to be dead.}”

“{Details,}” Jim said and waved a hand dismissively. “{Help me get him out of his jacket.}” They maneuvered Mycroft to get the jacket off and Jim sat on the edge of the couch so that he could loosen the tie and top button. “{That’s better.}”

Sebastian nodded. “{I’ll get the groceries and put them in the fridge,}” he said. “{While you figure out how to wake up Prince Charming.}”

“{I’m not sure a kiss will do it,}” Jim said, smirking. “{That might cause another panic attack.}” He looked toward the kitchen. “{Maybe see if he has an ice pack.}”

“{If not I can get you some ice cubes or a wet towel.}”

“{And check on the gingerbread; he’s probably got it in the oven,}” Jim said. “{And see if he has some tea ready to go. This was supposed to be a tea date.}”

*~*~*

“Hello, Sherlock. Any good cases?” John asked as he entered Mycroft’s office. “Are we going anywhere dangerous tonight?

Sherlock was seated in Mycroft’s chair and had papers strewn all over the desk while staring intently at the computer. “Yes,” he answered without looking up. John smiled with obvious anticipation. “It’s utterly brilliant.” 

John frowned. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up. “Yes? Hello, John.”

“I asked if we were going anywhere dangerous this evening,” John said and sighed.

“When I’m done with all of Mycroft’s business,” Sherlock replied. “Which should be in fourteen minutes and forty-eight seconds if you don’t distract me further, I’ve accepted a case and we need to go Southwark and Borough Market. It should be entertaining.” 

John nodded. “Did Mycroft leave you anything interesting?”

“God, no,” Sherlock grumbled. “But I took a closer look at his little Russian friend.”

“It can’t be good when you say it like that.”

“Mmmmm…” Sherlock steepled his fingers. “I’m less concerned that he’s a Russian spy.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“There are, however, just too many connections to Moriarty,” Sherlock said evenly. John’s eyes widened with fear. “And that’s even worse…”

*~*~*

The sound of the tea kettle whistling jarred Mycroft awake. He needed to pour the water so that the tea would be ready when Viktor arrived. ‘Was it wrong to love someone without really knowing them?’ he mused as he tried to sit up. Something held him down. A hand. Someone had a hand pressed against his chest to keep him down but it also felt calming. Something wasn’t right. His eyes flew open and there was a cloth over them. It was the silk paisley jacquard of his best table napkins. He’d selected them to impress Viktor and they should be on the table not on his face.

Memories flooded his mind and he tried to make sense of them all. _James Moriarty_. Nothing with regards to that man made any sense whatsoever. He was supposed to be dead. Mycroft felt the panic rising and forced himself to breathe deeply. The hand moved from his chest and two hands started caressing his arms. It felt incredibly soothing and Mycroft sighed before he could even think about it.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the familiar voice with its seductive Russian accent said. Viktor. Part of Mycroft’s mind instinctively wrapped itself in a blanket of safety and comfort while another part screamed _James Moriarty_. He whimpered and felt one hand gliding up his arm before the cloth was removed from his eyes. The fingers felt like Viktor’s. The touch and pressure of each finger was right. Mycroft opened his eyes. James Moriarty. 

“Keep breathing deeply and try to stay calm,” James said in that flawless, beautiful Russian voice and Mycroft saw Viktor. And James. It was James but in a way that Mycroft had never seen him. There was a clarity in his eyes and an openness in his expression that Mycroft hadn’t witnessed while interrogating Moriarty. “If you pass out again, I’m going to eat _all_ the gingerbread.”

The absurdity of _that_ statement forced a chuckle out of Mycroft. Of all the things he’d have expected James Moriarty to say, that certainly had not been it. He smiled softly as facts and deductions fell into place. “I somehow expected a more dramatic threat from you,” he said.

“I thought it was pretty dramatic,” James countered. “It smells really good.” Mycroft continued to observe him. He almost seemed like a completely different person. Almost. But he was still James Moriarty. “Stop thinking,” James continued and caressed the side of Mycroft’s face. 

Before he could stop himself, Mycroft leaned into the touch and sighed but then forced himself to pull away. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Please, don’t.” The hand fell away from him.

“I’m not him,” James said, still speaking with the beautiful Russian accent. Mycroft knew that if he closed his eyes everything would be perfect and it would be Viktor.

“{Tea’s ready,}” a voice from the kitchen said. “{Do you want it out there?}” 

Mycroft’s eyes widened. Russian. That had to be Sergei and that meant that he was in more danger than he had originally thought. He felt himself start trembling and saw concern flash across James’s face.

“{Yes, please,}” James replied and then caressed Mycroft’s arms. “{You’re safe. I won’t hurt you and I won’t let Sergei hurt you.}”

Mycroft closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. No matter what James said, he sensed that Sergei still wanted to kill him. James kept rubbing his arms but Mycroft refused to open his eyes. He knew that if he could stop panicking and start thinking and analyzing properly, he would be able to handle the situation a little better and come up with a solution that didn’t involve his demise but his mind wouldn’t cooperate. Hearing the tea tray being set down on the coffee table without having first heard footsteps increased his panic. Sergei was just as much a killer as James Moriarty and he was military.

“Do you want to sit up?” James asked. “Can you sit up? Tea will help.” Mycroft nodded and he felt two sets of hands helping him up. Pillows were propped behind him but Viktor stayed seated next to him. James Moriarty, not Viktor. “I’ll put the mask back on,” James said. “Maybe that will help until we sort through this.”

Mycroft counted to ten before opening his eyes and saw Viktor wearing the mask and holding a cup of tea out to him. He took it and savored the warmth seeping into his fingers. Turning, he saw three pieces of gingerbread, a bowl of his Crème Anglaise with a serving spoon, two tea cups, sugar, and cream on the tea tray as well as a large, heavily muscled man sitting on his couch and looking at him as though he’d rather shoot him. Mycroft frowned but Sergei smiled pleasantly and greeted him in Russian. 

Mycroft nodded and sipped his tea. That was perfect. Somehow James had remembered how he took his tea. “Thank you,” he murmured and looked back at James/Viktor, seated so close to him on the edge of the couch.

“Let me say a few things,” Viktor said. His voice was always so incredibly enchanting. “Let me clarify some things.” 

Mycroft nodded and then remembered his manners. “Please, have some tea and the gingerbread, of course.” 

“{Thank you,}” Sergei murmured, picking up a plate of gingerbread but still watching him intently.

Mycroft suddenly realized what had happened and he chuckled. “I suppose it’s rather rude of me to invite you for tea and then make _you_ prepare that as well as the gingerbread.”

Nodding in acknowledgment, Viktor picked up one of the remaining tea cups, saluted with it, and took a sip. “You liked the chocolate chai?”

“I did,” Mycroft answered and then slowly added, “It reminded me of you.”

Viktor smiled in a manner that Mycroft would say almost seemed shy. “It’s one of my favorites,” he said. He put the tea cup down, picked up a plate of gingerbread, and added an unbelievable amount of Crème Anglaise. Mycroft’s eyes widened. It seemed that he was not the only person who liked that level of decadence. Viktor offered him a bite and, after taking a deep breath, Mycroft accepted it. Soothing memories of Viktor feeding him flooded his mind.

Viktor took a bite of his own and smiled mysteriously. “Delicious.” Mycroft didn’t know how to answer that so he remained silent. His mind still refused to cooperate. It was as though Viktor and Sergei had turned it off and all processes, deductions, analyses, and computations were inaccessible.

“Moriarty died on the rooftop,” Viktor said quietly. “I had finished my affairs just before then and I simply left.” He caressed Mycroft’s arm again. “I’ve been doing different types of things in Russia and stateside to keep myself busy but nothing in Europe or England. I tried to stay out of your way. Completely.”

“You succeeded,” Mycroft said. “I had no reason to suspect you were anything but dead even though I looked for signs that first year.”

Viktor nodded and fed first Mycroft then himself another bite. “I don’t plan on causing any trouble for you, crown, or Queen,” he added. “Every time I reinvent myself, I get better. I keep some parts because I’m obviously still me and the past can’t wholly be erased, but I evolve. I like Viktor a lot and-”

“So do I,” Mycroft interjected shyly. It felt like an earth-shattering admission but Viktor’s smile showed him that it was well received.

“He’s sweet.”

“He’s caring,” Mycroft added and felt himself relax at those words.

“He seems to get himself into more trouble than one would expect for an innocent bookkeeper,” Viktor said and smirked. “He has horrible taste in men. Lets a CIA agent drug him and then kidnaps the British government by accident.”

Mycroft chuckled. “He doesn’t feed me the gingerbread quickly enough although he does put an adequate amount of brandied Crème Anglaise on it.”

Viktor giggled and that sound melted Mycroft. “Sergei thinks he’s completely lost his mind,” Viktor said.

“{He has,}” Sergei noted.

“Be quiet, you!” Viktor ordered playfully but then became serious once more. “Viktor does not mean any harm to you or anything or anyone that you hold dear.” He looked at Mycroft pensively. “And that, in no uncertain terms, includes Sherlock.” Mycroft inhaled sharply. “It’s true. I mean him no harm.”

“{He’s the one who gave you the information so that you could rescue Sherlock in Serbia,}” Sergei said. Viktor glared at him.

“That was you?” Mycroft asked. Viktor pursed his lips petulantly.

“{You got the information from an agent named Aca Popović, who got it from David Ahmetović, the British contact in the Serbian Orthodox Church, don’t ask how I know that, who was passing it along from Zivko Sokolov, who is another identity, can’t go into more details there, of the person who should be in your lap and not sitting on the edge of the couch,}” Sergei stated and then looked at the plate of gingerbread in Viktor’s hand. “{And since you two seem to be sharing that, I’m having another.}” He picked up the last plate of gingerbread.

Mycroft stared at Viktor for a moment while he correlated what Sergei had just said with what he knew and what data had been missing from his very thorough investigation of what had happened to Sherlock in Serbia. “That can all be verified,” Viktor said.

“I just did,” Mycroft said and then sighed deeply. “Thank you.” Viktor ate a bite of gingerbread. “May I ask why?”

“No,” Viktor grumbled. “I mean you can ask but I’m not going to answer.”

Mycroft insisted, “I would like to know.”

“Nyet.”

“Please.”

“Fine,” Viktor grumbled and Mycroft almost chuckled at how adorable that Russian accent sounded while grumbling. “I was rather fond of Sherlock for quite a while,” Viktor said. “Even after I got over it, I didn’t want him tortured and I certainly didn’t want him to die that way over there.”

The mention of Sherlock’s torture chilled Mycroft. Torture. _He_ had tortured James. Horrifically. He remembered Viktor’s words from before and realized that _he_ was the source of most if not all of Viktor’s nightmares. Everything that he had done to Moriarty flashed across his mind and he shuddered. 

Lowering his head, Mycroft started analyzing everything that had happened since the rooftop, the embassy party, and his return to England. Everything that James Moriarty had done for him under the guise of Viktor. The old cost/benefit analysis was discarded and he quickly calculated a new one. Unless he was playing some new game, James Moriarty had lost everything, every possible advantage, on him and Sherlock, when he’d returned Mycroft to England.

“Don’t think too hard, otherwise I’ll eat the rest of the gingerbread,” Viktor teased.

Mycroft chuckled and opened his mouth, demanding another bite. Viktor promptly fed him one. “There _is_ plenty left,” Mycroft said softly, still shaken by his thoughts.

“I know,” Viktor said and then smiled quirkily. “It’s the Crème Anglaise that’s the problem. I had to sample it to make sure it was all right.”

“{He ate about half of it while you were unconscious. That’s all that’s left,}” Sergei said, indicating the bowl.

“I see.” Mycroft turned to look at the bowl and noted with dismay how little remained. Viktor had the decency to look guilty. “Best give me another bite then.” Viktor did so and then had a bite himself.

Mycroft slowly pulled the mask off of Viktor and again was amazed at how much it was but wasn’t James Moriarty. “Why…?” he asked and studied Viktor’s face intently. “What game are you playing? Why didn’t you hurt me? You could have done anything and yet, you didn’t.”

Viktor looked away for a moment but then turned back. Mycroft saw so much that he’d never seen with Moriarty. Honesty, innocence, confidence, hesitation, and the brilliance and complexity that had always attracted him. “I wanted to,” Viktor answered. “I really did. I was going to pay you back for every little favor that you had bestowed upon me. They weren’t going to find enough of you to figure out what had happened.” He looked away. “I had the knife out and was fantasizing about how pretty your pale skin would look with rivulets of red blood.”

Mycroft shuddered at that image. “What happened?” he asked. “I have to admit that I wouldn’t have blamed you… but, obviously, you didn’t.”

“You had the panic attack,” Viktor explained and Mycroft saw so much honesty in James’s eyes that it hurt him. “I had so many assumptions about you and your life, so perfect and privileged, but in that moment, they all vanished. The supervillain Iceman melted. You became human, just like me. You were suffering and I couldn’t. You were going through everything that I’ve gone through.” He reached out and caressed the side of Mycroft’s face. “It shattered my illusions about you and made me want to understand and see the real you.”

Mycroft was stunned and felt tears sliding out of his eyes. Once again, it felt as though he were coming home. Slowly, he pushed himself forward until their lips met and they kissed. Mycroft savored every moment. He slid his arms around Viktor and held him close. When Sergei put his plate on the tray audibly, they pulled away slightly. 

Viktor whispered against his lips, “Despite all of it, before, it made me want to care for you, protect you, and love you…”


	16. Transformations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor spends the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is entirely from Mycroft's POV and is written keeping how he sees things in mind.

**Transformations**

A sound roused Mycroft from a very comfortable sleep. Whimpering. Forcing his mind awake, he tightened his arms around the warm body that he was curled around and opened his eyes. It was dark. The body started trembling. Mycroft took a deep breath. He and Viktor were in his bed. Mycroft was wearing his soft flannel pyjamas while Viktor was completely naked except for a pair of Mycroft’s sleep socks and seemed to be having a nightmare.

~

( _earlier_ )  
After tea they had prepared dinner together and kept the conversation light, avoiding all dangerous topics. Mycroft had been surprised and pleased that Viktor had brought all the ingredients for a six course dinner. While he had wanted to cook for Viktor, the fact that Viktor had wanted to cook _for him_ made him feel cared for and cherished. The closeness in the kitchen and accidental touches and brushes had warmed his heart and given him reason to hope for something that he knew he shouldn’t hope for. They had so much baggage and Mycroft sensed Viktor’s underlying fear of him.

Sesame ginger salmon tartare had been followed by mushroom and leek soup featuring almost every asian and exotic mushroom that Mycroft could identify. The entrée had been fig and gouda quesadillas followed by a pear and blue cheese salad with candied pecans. Mycroft had shown his prowess at stealing quite a few of the pecans despite Viktor’s withering glares.

The main course was Mongolian glazed steak with a red pepper cabbage stir fry and rice noodles. Mycroft marveled at how Viktor could create exotic dishes with such flavor without spending much time or effort on them. The last course was baked brie served with fresh fruit, a French baguette, and a rather spicy hot mango pachadi chutney.

Mycroft had asked where and why Viktor had learned to cook so well. The answer both impressed and saddened him. He had learned to cook because it had offered him a reprieve from the bleak reality of his childhood and adolescence. Cooking was like adding a splash of color to an institution gray life.

After making some evening tea, they’d played a few games of chess which Viktor had freely admitted he wasn’t all that good at and promptly lost each game. Mycroft suspected that he was being played. The conversation had continued to remain light: food and favorite recipes, the relative merits of certain Yankee politicians, favorite travel destinations, entomology, and of course, London’s weather.

Eventually Mycroft had warmed the remainder of the gingerbread while Viktor made a raspberry lemon ginger sauce for it since he’d been responsible for the demise of the brandied Crème Anglaise. Mycroft was content. The evening had been enjoyable and he felt himself longing for more... for more of that level of companionship, for some sort of intimacy, and for someone with whom to share his life in just such a way.

As the evening wore on, Viktor had asked if Sergei could use Mycroft’s guest room and Mycroft had agreed. They hadn’t discussed where Viktor was sleeping. Mycroft wasn’t sure if he should have been scandalized that Viktor had led the way to his bedroom and horrified that there was a toothbrush tucked in behind the bandages and ointments in his medicine cabinet, or if he was simply pleased that Viktor wasn’t leaving.

He’d been somewhat less pleased to discover that Viktor slept nude. And knew where his favorite pinstripe sleep socks were. At least Viktor hadn’t been disconcerted that Mycroft preferred sleeping in pyjamas. Despite a few minutes of awkwardness and the ignoring of a thousand alarms going off in his head, Mycroft had fallen asleep fairly quickly.

~

“It’s all right,” Mycroft whispered and caressed Viktor’s arm while keeping him close. His voice caused Viktor’s distress to intensify and Mycroft silently cursed himself. Of course, his voice was a trigger. He’d been too afraid to bring up the topic for discussion earlier but _he_ was Viktor’s tormentor and was obviously playing a role in the nightmare. He shifted so that he could turn on the light on his nightstand.

“Now what do I do?” Mycroft muttered and this time his voice caused Viktor’s eyes to bolt open. Seeing Mycroft, he screamed, and Mycroft was filled with guilt and recrimination. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said as evenly as he could but Viktor pushed him away frantically while Mycroft tried to gently hold him. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeated. With tears forming in his eyes, Viktor started almost violently trembling but Mycroft saw him trying to regain control and fend off the confusion and sleep. 

A light came on in the hallway and his bedroom door opened. Sergei. Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief but noted that the man was completely alert and had concealed weapons. At least they weren’t drawn. He’d probably not gone to sleep. Mycroft didn’t care; he could help with the situation. “{Are you okay?}” Sergei asked crisply while eyeing him suspiciously. 

“{I am but he’s not. He had a nightmare,}” Mycroft replied, hoping that speaking in Russian wouldn’t make matters worse. “{He’s awake but I can’t make him stop shaking. He’s sort of still in the nightmare.}” Viktor curled in on himself.

Sergei nodded, slowly entered the room, and then lay down on the bed on the other side of Viktor. “{It’s going to take some time,}” he said quietly while starting to rub Viktor’s back. “{Sensory input helps him come out of it faster.}” He paused to maneuver Viktor so that he was sandwiched between the two of them.

More memories of how Viktor had helped him returned and Mycroft continued to hold and touch Viktor. Sergei pressed against Viktor’s back. Looking at Sergei, Mycroft realized that the man seemed familiar. He closed his eyes.

Sergei resembled… a thousand images flashed through Mycroft’s mind until it stopped on one. Baron Augustus Moran. Mycroft exhaled slowly as he mentally scanned through what he knew of the Baron’s family. “Colonel Sebastian Moran,” he whispered while opening his eyes and he looking directly at the man. “SAS, dishonorable discharge: temperamental unsuitability and insubordination.”

“No wonder he likes you,” Sergei said in perfect English.

“Mention was made about recruiting you for MI5,” Mycroft said. “The insubordination gave us pause.”

“I ignore stupid orders and stupid people.”

“I suppose there were a few of those in the military,” Mycroft noted. Sebastian grimaced. “Rather in most of the British government as well.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Sebastian said and braced as Viktor’s body was wracked by a violent shudder. “I found myself a brilliant boss and I haven’t looked back since.”

“There were some that wondered what had happened to you,” Mycroft said and then kissed the top of Viktor’s head. “I’m sorry…” Viktor wrapped his arms around Mycroft and snuggled into him. After a few minutes the trembling stopped and he seemed to fall back asleep.

Sebastian pulled both Mycroft and Viktor into his arms. They left the light on but neither slept. Both simply held Viktor in silence. Mycroft slowly relaxed but his mind wouldn’t stop going over what had just happened and his own past with Moriarty. 

*~*~*

When the first rays of the sun started peeking in through the windows, Viktor awoke and caressed the side of his face. Mycroft pulled him upward a little and looked into his dark chocolate eyes.

He found that he could lose himself in those eyes. Seeing every emotion that Viktor had gone through and knowing that they were an echo of his past as well, hurt on many levels. Mycroft realized that it was also a reflection of his own nightmares and his life. Viktor fell away. James Moriarty evaporated. The baggage dissipated into nothingness. All that was left was the person in his arms, a human who had suffered in much the same way as he had; the beautiful person who had looked beyond the stories to see _him_ , and hadn’t used that knowledge to hurt him.

Gently kissing the man’s lips, Mycroft whispered, “You’re safe, James.” A sad smile ghosted across his lips and he tucked himself in against Mycroft again. 

“He’s usually not all that talkative, just rests for a bit afterward,” Sebastian said and then nudged James gently. “Do you want me to make you some tea?” James nodded. 

“Do you-” Mycroft started to ask but Sebastian silenced him with a wave. “Right. Go on, then. I don’t want to know.” Sebastian shot him what he would definitely call a very insubordinate look and then got off the bed.

Mycroft waited until he heard Sebastian in the kitchen and then kissed James’s lips again. “Are you feeling a bit better?” he asked. 

“A little,” James whispered. 

“Do you want to tell me about it?” James shook his head. Mycroft sighed. “My guardian angel told me that if I told him things, it would be the start of a voice that wouldn’t come back to haunt me.”

James tipped his head to one side in a gesture that Mycroft found ridiculously adorable. “Your guardian angel probably lies a lot.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s not easy.” James’s voice sounded unsteady and weary. “They’re all tangled and jumbled.”

“Are they all me?” Mycroft asked. He was afraid that the answer would be yes but, after witnessing the nightmare, he no longer wanted to shy away from the subject. James shook his head. “Mostly me?”

“It’s all jumbled,” James repeated and then scrunched his eyes to gather his thoughts. “You’re there, as are the other interrogators... but there’s also my stepfather... the adults, school teachers... bullies, Carl Powers… street thugs... all of them and it all changes.” He paused to close his eyes and rest. Mycroft remained silent. Eventually James continued, “The people shift and what they’re doing also shifts and it blends together. It’s never the same and... it’s not always real, what actually happened.”

“It’s a warped magnification or aggrandizement of the past,” Mycroft surmised.

“Yes.” James cuddled into him again.

Mycroft took a deep breath. “I would like to apologize for my part in hurting you.”

“It was business, Mika.”

Mycroft shook his head. He adored hearing that nickname even though he generally despised nicknames. But he couldn’t let himself get distracted. “No,” he said very slowly but deliberately. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t _just business_.”

“Shhhhhhh, it’s over.”

“It’s not over for you,” Mycroft stated.

“You don’t need to dwell on it.” 

“It wasn’t just business,” Mycroft repeated before continuing. “It was Sherlock. You threatened Sherlock and…” He stopped as a few pieces of information from the past fell into place. “Sherlock was never in any _real_ danger from you, was he?”

“No.”

“I was a fool. I should have seen that,” Mycroft said. “Sherlock asked me to step in to protect John but I never observed or analyzed the situation properly. Instead it-”

“It caused fear and panic because you felt Sherlock was in danger,” James said. He was starting to sound more normal. 

“Yes.”

“I do understand it fully now,” James said, keeping his voice soft but steady. He again caressed the side of Mycroft’s face. “I understand why, after what you went through, protecting Sherlock has always caused a strong reaction in you.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t excuse it,” Mycroft said firmly. “What we, what I, did to you was inhumane and should never have been done to anyone. It was taken to a level that should never have happened. Protecting Sherlock doesn’t excuse any of it. For that, I am deeply sorry.”

James pressed his face into Mycroft’s chest but Mycroft continued. “I set out to annihilate you, to completely eradicate the threat to my beloved little brother, to destroy everything that I could about you so that there would be no danger remaining to Sherlock.”

“I figured that out, eventually,” James said. “And I accept that I triggered you. You were only protecting Sherlock.”

“That still doesn’t absolve it or me,” Mycroft insisted.

James shot him a quirky smile. “As long as you make it up to me, _continually_ , I’ll allow you to wallow in your own guilt for as long as you want.” He leaned up to kiss Mycroft gently and Mycroft kissed him back. Savoring the closeness and tenderness he felt from James, he wondered how he had ended up with understanding and compassion instead of the torture that he felt he truly deserved.

“How can you be so laissez-faire when you have these horrific nightmares and panic attacks?” Mycroft asked. 

James shrugged. “I’ve always dealt with things this way. Laugh at it, shine a strobe on it, blast it through the speakers on high volume, pour glitter on it, and wear it like a crown.” He smirked. “And I _do_ look good in a crown.”

“You do,” Mycroft agreed and then took a deep breath. “I… That was the first picture that… that intrigued me.” James giggled. “On the throne with all the regalia.”

“It made you want to fuck me,” James said mischievously. Mycroft eyes widened at those words. “Strike that, reverse it. It made you want to share a pair of your favorite sleep socks with me so that my feet don’t get cold at night.” He rubbed his feet against Mycroft’s legs.

Mycroft chuckled. “Yes, that was it, wholly.” James curled into him again and Mycroft cherished the feeling of holding the smaller man. “What _are_ we doing?” he asked suddenly. “Are we doing this?”

James looked up at him. “I’m in your bed, naked, and wearing your sleep socks,” he said. “Of course, we’re doing _this_ ,”

“There will be obstacles,” Mycroft said hesitantly.

“And logistics is our strong suit,” James said. “We’ll manage.”

“Nightmares and panic attacks?”

“I can handle yours and you seemed to handle mine just fine,” James said. “That was about average.”

“I want to fix yours.”

James smiled tenderly. “I don’t know if you or anyone can,” he said. “Sebastian certainly tried.”

“And he’d made good progress until I messed it up fantastically.”

“You’re good at what you do,” James teased but there were hints of sadness in his voice again.

“Thank you, but I’m not proud of that,” Mycroft replied. “And I do plan on working on them. With the three of us, we can definitely make progress.” He paused. “What about Colonel Moran? He looks like he wants to shoot me.”

“I say we keep him,” James said and then laughed when Sebastian walked into the room at just that moment with a tray and three mugs of tea. They both sat up.

“Me?” Sebastian asked. James smirked and shot him a sly grin. “Yeah, I’m good with the two of you keeping me. We have some things that _I_ want to discuss with Mycroft,” he looked pointedly at Mycroft. “But with Jim’s cooking, Mycroft’s baking, and with three of us, the sex will be phenomenal!” 

Mycroft looked aghast but James laughed. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sebastian.” 

Seb handed them each a mug. “I found some lavender Earl Grey.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured as he took the mug. James simply blew Sebastian a kiss when he took his mug.

“I’ll be in the guest room,” Sebastian said. “Call me when you two have my breakfast ready.”

“Get out,” James grumbled playfully. “I can’t start missing you if you don’t leave.” Sebastian grinned and sauntered out of the room.

“Thank you again, Colonel,” Mycroft said as Sebastian partially closed the door behind him. James took a sip of the tea and sighed contentedly. Mycroft also took a sip. “Should I be concerned that you and Colonel Moran know your way around my house seemingly as well as I do?

“No, not at all,” James replied. “It should reassure you. You do need a better security system but, really, it means that I already know where to put things back when I use them.”


	17. Breakfast with Sebastian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim, Sebastian, and Mycroft have breakfast and a polite chat complete with subtle threats.

**Breakfast with Sebastian**

“I can’t believe you’ve been making French omelets for over a week,” Jim teased as he slid the last omelet out of the pan and onto Mycroft’s plate before adding a generous helping of the oven potatoes that Sebastian had made. Earlier they had snuggled in bed for a long while, until Jim had become restless. After commandeering one of Mycroft’s thick fluffy bathrobes, he’d dragged the other two into the kitchen to help with breakfast. It was close to one in the afternoon.

“It made quite the impression,” Mycroft said. Jim picked up his own plate and all three walked to the dining room.

“Not as fantastic as the one he made for _me_ the other night,” Sebastian said smugly. “It had caviar, salmon, avocado, cream cheese, and black pepper in it.” 

“That sounds wonderful and I think I can admit to being just a little bit jealous,” Mycroft said and then picked up the teapot. “I’ll be Mother.”

“Is that something you’re good at?” Sebastian asked all too sweetly while Mycroft poured the tea.

Jim waited until Mycroft was done and then quickly scooted into the man’s lap. Smiling just as sweetly, he turned to Sebastian and asked, “Could you hand me my plate?” His eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Sure,” Seb said and slid Jim’s plate toward him. “Do you want the silverware too? That’ll cost you.”

“How about I won’t gut you in your sleep.”

“Oooo… that sounds like a deal I can’t refuse.”

“What is in _these_ omelets?” Mycroft asked a bit awkwardly.

“Well, you had the shiitake mushrooms, Gruyère, and tarragon already in the fridge,” Jim said coyly, while pulling Mycroft’s fork out of his hand. “But I also found some Swiss and Stilton as well as German Brunswick ham. In it all went along with a healthy dose of black pepper.” He cut a piece of Mycroft’s omelet and fed it to him.

“Mmmmm…” Mycroft mumbled around the bite.

“Daddy knows how to make an omelet.”

“It’s delicious,” Mycroft said. “And-”

“Can we talk about more important things now?” Sebastian interrupted bluntly. Jim rolled his eyes but Sebastian continued, “Yes, yes, you make the best omelets this side of Saturn but Mycroft and I need to discuss some more down to Earth matters. Some things need to be made _crystal clear_.”

Mycroft tensed so Jim fed him a piece of potato. He realized that Sebastian’s concerns were valid but felt that, after all that they had been through, he and Mycroft had not only an understanding, but enough professional courtesy that if problems were to arise, they would be handled in a mature fashion.

“Go on, Colonel,” Mycroft said evenly although Jim heard hints of anxiety in his voice. “And your potatoes are excellent. I’ve tried a few times to replicate them and have not had much success.”

Sebastian smirked. “I can show you what I do next time. It’s nothing special although I do have a secret ingredient,” he said but then his expression turned serious. “There’s no denying who you are and what you did.” Mycroft winced so Jim caressed the side of his face. “Jim may understand why and he may be willing to let it go but I’m not yet convinced. I took care of him after you were done and I have neither forgiven you nor forgotten.”

“James and I have spoken about this,” Mycroft said while looking away. Jim snuggled closer and refrained from interrupting. “He is, perhaps, the most understanding of the three of us. I have neither forgotten nor forgiven myself.”

Sebastian was about to say something but Mycroft held up a hand. “I’ve promised to help James to the utmost of my ability and perhaps, like you, I am somewhat frustrated by the ease with which he seems to excuse what I did. I’m not sure it’s all that healthy.”

“It’s not,” Sebastian agreed.

Jim frowned. “I think that’s enough of that, both of you,” he grumbled while cutting his own omelet with Mycroft’s fork. “I understand what happened. Unlike the both of you, I was there for _all_ of it and it is _my_ choice what to do about it.”

Sebastian sighed. “Before we go any further,” he said. “Let me warn you against telling him what to do. It just doesn’t work and causes more problems.”

“I believe I already have enough proof of _that_ ,” Mycroft stated and opened his mouth as Jim fed him two pieces of potato at once.

“So, let’s get on to the more important matter,” Sebastian said. Jim wondered whether he should stop Sebastian but then decided it was best if everything was discussed sooner and not when Sebastian might have the opportunity to corner Mycroft alone. “As I said, there’s no denying who you are and what you did, but also, what you have the power to do.”

“I assure you that I have no ill intentions towards James,” Mycroft said firmly and then kissed the side of Jim’s face. 

Jim scrunched his face with glee. “See-eee,” he said in a sing-song voice.

“I’m sure you don’t, _right now_ ,” Sebastian continued, ignoring Jim. “But you know who Jim is and what he does. He’s also reckless and, if he gets angry, he blows off steam in certain ways.”

“I’ve already told Mycroft that I’m not working in London or the entirety of the U.K. anymore,” Jim said. “Viktor is a boring bookkeeper except when the universe conspires against him at embassy parties and that’s not his fault.”

“Except for when you get cranky and then you just don’t care,” Sebastian countered. “Mycroft needs to know what you are capable of doing.”

Mycroft gasped as he seemed to deduce a few things. “You killed Adrien Longfield,” he said.

Jim tipped his head and smiled smugly. “ _That_ was a public service.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment but then agreed, “Indeed, it was.” Jim kissed him sweetly. Mycroft turned back to Sebastian and said, “Colonel, I understand your concerns, and I am under no delusions about James. I myself have signed many orders that most normal people would consider morally questionable, at best, some of which you probably _executed_ during your time with the military.”

Sebastian nodded. “As long as you both understand what you’re getting into,” he said. “I have one last thing to bring up.”

“Sebastian.” Jim glared at him. “I think he’s got it and you can stop fretting.”

“Go on,” Mycroft said. “It’ll be fine, James. I’m heartened that the Colonel cares for your safety and protects you in much the same way that you have done for me of late.”

Sebastian smiled wryly. “So, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “I’m sure that you recall all the failsafes that we had and used to get Jim away from you?”

Feeling Mycroft tense, Jim set the fork down and eyed Sebastian intently for a moment. Mycroft started trembling so Jim caressed his arms to soothe him. Mycroft took a deep breath. “Colonel, I assure you that you will not need to drag my younger brother into this because I have no intention of harming James in any way.”

“As long as you don’t have any illusions of what _will_ happen if you abuse your position in government against Jim,” Sebastian said coldly. “That’s what I’m warning you against, an abuse of power. I don’t care to manage your relationship. I don’t care what you two do, as long as it’s equal and fair. I can see that you’re both besotted with each other right now and I’m happy for you. I think you’ll be good for each other. This just needed to be said, just in case.”

Jim felt Mycroft relax and that reassured him. He had to admit that Sebastian had accurately spoken to his concerns and he was pleased with how Mycroft had reacted. He saw no guile in the other man’s expression or how he held himself.

“I did abuse my power last time,” Mycroft said quietly. “And for that I am deeply ashamed. I have no intention of doing it again first and foremost because of personal considerations but also because I’ve made the decision to resign.”

“What?!” Jim shrieked while Sebastian’s eyes widened. “Why?!”

“It’s complicated,” Mycroft said and let Jim feed him another piece of potato.

“It’s ridiculous, Mycroft Holmes,” Jim said. “You love your work. Why on earth are you doing that?”

“My work is tied to my family and their expectations. It represents what I endured because of them,” Mycroft said. Jim hugged him tightly. He understood wanting to destroy anything and everything that held one anchored to a painful past. “And,” Mycroft continued. “I’m doing it to make Viktor feel safe. I wrote my resignation letter a few days ago with you in mind. I understand the concerns that you might have about a relationship with someone in my position and they are valid, especially after what I did to you. My resignation remedies that.”

“But you love your work,” Jim insisted.

“I love you more,” Mycroft admitted. “I don’t know how it happened, but it did. And also, I need to find myself, away from everything that is associated with my family.”

“I understand,” Jim said. “But, for the third time, you better start listening to me or I’ll be peeved, you _do_ love your work. It may have started out as your family but you made it you. It’s not them anymore. You _are_ the British government, at least the competent parts of it. And resigning is very... final.”

“You’ve given me a taste of what freedom is like,” Mycroft said. “And I want more. I don’t want to be tied down by old chains. I don’t want to tie you down either.”

Jim frowned. “You won’t.”

“Can you take a sabbatical?” Sebastian suggested. “Like six months or a year? That’s usually enough time to tell your family to fuck off, get rid of any dissenters, ship the rest of them to Siberia, and have a massive party.” Mycroft chuckled and then Jim kissed his lips tenderly. 

“I think a sabbatical would be great,” Jim said. “It would give you time to decompress from all that’s happened, which is a lot. It would give you some space from the family so that you can think clearly and you and I can take some vacations together.” Jim smiled impishly. “I want to take you to my home in Estonia. You’ll love it. The night sky is fantastic and you can see so many stars and constellations. And there’s Tallinn, it’s very medieval and beautiful and I can cook you some _pirukad_.”

Mycroft smiled tenderly. “That sounds lovely,” he said. “Let me think about it but the driving factor when I made the decision, was that I wanted Viktor to feel safe with me. Without my work, you have nothing to fear whereas a sabbatical is only temporary.”

“If I take away your work, I’ve taken away a significant portion of your life and-” Jim said. 

“But you would be safe,” Sebastian interjected. “He has a valid argument.”

Jim frowned. “I would never want to do that. We-” He was again interrupted by the alarm system chiming that the front door had just been unlocked. “We’ve got company.”

“Bother, it’s Sherlock,” Mycroft grumbled as he heard the door open.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock yelled from the entryway and then shut the door forcefully.

“Dining room,” Mycroft replied loudly.

“I’m worried about you,” Sherlock said as he started walking toward them. “I think your friend Viktor is much more of a danger than you think. He is ominously connected to Moriar–” Sherlock stopped short at the entrance to the dining room and stared at the three occupants for a few seconds before drawing his gun and pointing it at Jim.


	18. Sherlock Arrives!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, Mycroft, James, and Sebastian enjoy breakfast.

**Sherlock Arrives**

Seeing the gun, Mycroft felt sheer panic and, without thinking, twisted in the chair and then pushed them both to the floor. “Stay down,” he said to James, who instead of showing any concern, wrapped his arms around Mycroft, winked, and kissed him. Mycroft supposed that he was blocking Sherlock enough to prevent a lethal shot and a kiss would not only be delectable but would send an adequate message to his brother.

“The bloody hell. Mycroft, what are you doing?” Sherlock growled incredulously as Sebastian stood up languidly. He shifted to point the gun at Sebastian. “You, stay seated.”

“It looks like they’re snogging,” Sebastian said flatly while continuing to approach Sherlock. “And if you expect anyone to be afraid of you, you need to bring something other than Watson’s airsoft.”

Sherlock glared at him condescendingly but then put the gun away and eyed his brother. “Mycroft! Stop that!”

“It’s safe, kids,” Sebastian added. “I diffused the dangerous and life-threatening situation.” Sherlock sighed with incredulous disdain while Sebastian shot him a knowing smile. Mycroft lifted his head, looked at Sherlock, and quickly kissed James, who looked entirely too pleased. 

“That’s repulsive,” Sherlock grumbled.

“That was sexy,” James said playfully. “Kiss me again.” Mycroft did so, much more leisurely.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock growled. “Explain this. Why was James Moriarty not only very much _alive_ but also in your lap, and you two were… are… ugh...” He waved his hand with disgust.

“Best have a seat, mate,” Sebastian said while sitting down. “They may be there for a while.” James giggled. 

Sherlock ignored that and his expression didn’t soften. “Can you two just stop that?”

“I suppose,” Mycroft said while rolling off of James and helping him up. “Did you know it wasn’t a real gun?” 

“I guessed that from the quick look I got of it but thank you for saving me,” James said and then fixed his bathrobe. He looked at the other occupants of the room for a moment. “I’ll cook Sherly an omelet while you two chat.”

“I’m not sure he’s deserving,” Mycroft teased as James walked to the kitchen. “Barging into my house like that and pointing a gun, even a fake one, at my houseguests.”

“I’m still here,” Sherlock grumbled.

“I see that,” Mycroft noted and then pointed to an empty place at the table. “Sit, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

“You better have a good explanation,” Sherlock said but did sit down as did Mycroft.

“For what, exactly?” Mycroft asked and then eyed their breakfast plates. He smiled as blandly as he could manage while knowing full well how much Sherlock hated that. “It was a long night and we slept in so breakfast was late.” Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Problem?”

“Have you? Did you?” Sherlock stammered and stared at him in disbelief. “Oh, never mind. I don’t want to know and it doesn’t matter. Have you lost your bloody mind?”

“Quite possibly,” Mycroft replied. “But I really don’t give the proverbial rat’s derrière.”

Sherlock was uncharacteristically silent for a few moments. “Why?” he finally asked.

“Why what?”

“Why is he alive?”

“I suspect much the same reason you are,” Mycroft said as he sat down.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Did you know?”

“Not until last night,” Mycroft replied. “Otherwise I would have unleashed the fury of the British government on him.”

“Jim hasn’t really worked in England at all,” Sebastian explained. “He’s kept a low profile after the rooftop and purposefully stayed away from both of you.”

“I had suspected that there were a few of Moriarty’s lieutenants or agents still operating but obviously not _him_ ,” Mycroft said. “I was a bit surprised last night.”

“He fainted,” Sebastian said while smiling gleefully.

“Why didn’t you have him arrested last night then?” Sherlock asked with an accusing tone. “Why didn’t you run him through with your umbrella? Or shoot him with that Charles Moore flintlock that you keep in working condition?”

“Wasn’t necessary,” Mycroft said.

“It’s tough to injure someone when you’re unconscious on the couch,” Sebastian added.

Sherlock glared at him. “Bollocks,” he growled. “You left work early, Mycroft. I thought you needed time to think. I thought you were going to make some progress in getting Viktor out of your mind. Instead you were getting ready for a date with a man you should have been running away from as fast as you could possibly manage.”

“A gentleman will walk but never run,” Mycroft said

“You’re quoting someone who doesn’t go back more than three hundred years. Impressive,” Sherlock said flatly. “Perhaps a healthy breakfast is good for something.” 

“I _am_ familiar with modern culture,” Mycroft said. “And Viktor and I had a date for tea.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock continued. “And when you discovered it was not a dangerous Russian spy but an even more dangerous criminal, you should have called security immediately and hauled him off to a cell where he belongs instead of sh-” He glared at Mycroft and then in the direction of the kitchen. “Never mind that. I really don’t want to know. You should have safely extricated yourself at the very least.”

“I don’t think they shagged,” Sebastian interjected. Both Sherlock and Mycroft blushed. “It was too quiet. Jim is pretty loud.” 

“No, we didn’t, and yes, I am loud,” James supplied as he emerged from the kitchen with a teacup and saucer for Sherlock. Shaking his head, Mycroft accepted the teacup from James and then poured Sherlock some tea and tried not to be distracted by James walking back to the kitchen and the sudden thought of what it would be like to slide the bathrobe off of the man’s shoulders. 

“Despite everything that happened before,” Mycroft said quietly and as gently as he could. “James has saved my life twice now and he has been…” he paused and considered his next words. “He’s been caring.” He looked into Sherlock’s eyes and saw his brother’s confusion, distrust, and misgivings. “I have… I think you suspected but didn’t want to consider the possibility and I myself was terrified of it but I- I fell in love with him when I thought he was Viktor.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips but nodded. “Blatantly obvious.”

“Everything that Viktor did for me,” Mycroft continued, “becomes ten times more significant because he’s James. Think about it. Think about what Moriarty owed me and what Viktor did for me.”

“He’s _playing_ with you, now,” Sherlock said coldly. “He’s going to build your trust and then destroy you.”

“I don’t believe so, but it’s my decision to make. I’m not an idiot,” Mycroft said. “I had no intention of being blind to the potential dangers of Viktor and I am not naive about what the man in my kitchen is capable of doing.”

“He ruined my life,” Sherlock growled. “He destroyed everything that I worked to build.”

Mycroft covered his face with his hands then ran them through his hair. “The fault of that is mine, Sherlock,” he said. “And I’m very sorry.”

“No one controlled his actions. He’s a vicious criminal and a terrorist.”

“James’s actions were in retaliation for what I did to him,” Mycroft explained. “When you asked me to intercede, I didn’t observe and find the optimal way to handle things. Instead I misinterpreted your request, jumped to conclusions because I feared for your safety, and I overreacted. I didn’t just _tell_ him to leave John Watson alone.” Sherlock paled as he deduced what Mycroft had done. “Yes,” Mycroft confirmed. “That.”

“Worse than what happened to me?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft nodded silently but Sherlock shook his head “I don’t care. He still ruined my life and he’s a murderer. I’m not about to just excuse that or anything else that he’s done.”

“You are going to eat the omelet I’m about to put in front of you,” James said as he came out of the kitchen with a plate and silverware, which he set in front of Sherlock.

“I am not eating anything that you prepared,” Sherlock said.

“Food fixes everything,” James said. “Reheat anyone while I’m up?”

Mycroft watched James intently as he warmed their plates in the microwave and then repositioned himself in Mycroft’s lap. Smiling, he savored the closeness. The discussion with Sherlock had tired him. James ate a bite of his omelet and then started feeding Mycroft.

All, except Sherlock, ate in silence. Sherlock simply alternated between staring at his food and the other occupants of the room although Mycroft knew that his brother was thinking about what had been said and was actively processing it. Eventually Sebastian pulled Sherlock’s plate toward himself. “Did you put the usual amount of arsenic in this or a little extra for Sherlock?” he asked. Sherlock huffed.

“Mycroft was out of arsenic so I used ricin instead,” Jim said sweetly. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“That’s fabulous,” Sebastian said and cut himself a piece of Sherlock’s omelet from the middle and then returned the plate to Sherlock, who looked at him as though he were out of his mind. “Delicious,” Sebastian mumbled around the mouthful. “Just let me know if you don’t want it.”

“It’s very good,” Mycroft said. “You’ll like it. James makes wonderful omelets.” Sherlock frowned and then growled at Mycroft. He picked up his plate, grabbed the fork, and marched out the front door. Mycroft leaned against James.

“Your brother is an odd duck,” Sebastian noted. “I like him though.” Mycroft nodded and accepted a bite of potatoes from James.

“Well,” James said and caressed the side of his face. “At least he didn’t throw the plate at me or anyone else...”

*~*~*

They finished breakfast and then Mycroft made another pot of tea. He was worried and disheartened that Sherlock was upset but he wasn’t quite sure what would help his beloved little brother. A multitude of options danced through his mind but none were satisfactory. While James cleaned up, Mycroft and Sebastian played double solitaire. Eventually James sat down next to him and rubbed his arm. “I don’t know what I could have said differently,” Mycroft murmured.

“He just needs time,” James said. He leaned his head against Mycroft’s shoulder.

“I hope that’s all it is,” Mycroft said. “I don’t expect him to be pleased but would rather he not be hostile and… well…” He paused and sighed. “I don’t think I can change how I feel about you or him.”

“You don’t want to lose him,” James completed the sentence. Mycroft nodded. “You won’t. He loves you and that’s why this is hard for him.”

“I hope so. Losing him would kill me,” Mycroft said but then looked toward the front door when the alarm system chimed again. “We’ll find out soon enough.” 

James hugged him but then sat up properly. Plate in hand, Sherlock walked into the dining room and stared at the lot of them. “Plate goes in the dishwasher,” James said cheerfully while Mycroft cringed. “We waited for you to start it.”

Sherlock turned on his heel and walked to the kitchen. Mycroft heard him opening, closing, and then starting the dishwasher. He shot Jim a hopeful smile. After taking off his coat, Sherlock joined them at the table and Mycroft poured him some tea. “The omelet was good,” Sherlock said. “Thank you.”

“Welcome,” James replied in a sing song voice. Mycroft wasn’t sure what to say.

“Thank you also for rescuing my brother in St. Petersburg and then again when he returned,” Sherlock said with a measured voice. Mycroft held his breath.

“Our meeting was under a rather bizarre set of circumstances,” James explained. “And something happened between us. I couldn’t let anything happen to him after that.”

“If only because if anyone gets to kill him, it’s going to be you,” Sherlock said pointedly.

“Well, of course,” James said cheerfully. “That goes for you too.”

“That’s so reassuring.” 

“It should be,” Sebastian said. “You’re overthinking this. If James had wanted either of you two dead, now or before. You would be. Your flat has easy, clean lines of sight.”

Mycroft sighed. “My mistake was in not realizing that you were never in any danger from James and making the situation ten times worse,” he said. “And they’re both right. If he had wanted us dead, there would have been ample opportunity in the past two years. It would have been child’s play.”

Sherlock nodded and looked at James intently before stating, “You killed Gerald.” James’s expression didn’t change and he held perfectly still.

“You have no proof he did anything of that sort,” Mycroft said in case Sherlock chose to attack James over that.

“What sort of idiot do you take me for, Mycroft?” Sherlock snapped and then steepled his hands in front of him. “Before coming here, I spent three hours with Lestrade.” Mycroft’s eyes widened. “We went over, well, barely skimmed all the evidence that you turned over to him. I’m going back later but wanted to speak with you first.”

“I see,” Mycroft mumbled. He felt as though the ground beneath him had opened wide and he was falling. James reached out and took hold of one of his hands. Mycroft squeezed it tightly.

“Did you pay him to _fix_ it for you?” Sherlock asked. Momentarily stunned by the sharpness of the question, Mycroft stared at his brother and then looked away.

“Oh, honey,” Jim said. “Mycroft didn’t know that Viktor could fix things for him but even if he had, he can’t afford my rates. Neither of you can. I’m retired so my time is at a premium.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said almost inaudibly before lowering his eyes. “I didn’t think there was anything that could have been done to Gerald.” He looked up again. “I-”

“Your brother was victimized from early childhood onward,” James interrupted and again squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “Gerald took his authority and made him _powerless_. There is no way that in a few short days after my forcing him to confront it, Mycroft could have overcome what he went through to effectively eliminate Gerald.”

“Is that why you did it?” Sherlock asked. James nodded but Sherlock pressed, “Are you going to hold it over my brother.”

“No,” James answered and the honesty that Mycroft heard in James’s voice warmed his heart. “That’s not something that I would do. I feel very strongly about that sort of abuse and… just no. I just don’t.” He scrunched his nose with disgust. “No matter what he or you or anyone else does to me. I won’t.” Sherlock nodded and Mycroft brought Jim’s hand to his lips for a gentle kiss.

Sherlock took a deep breath and then spoke with determination, “I came here to talk to you about what happened, Mycroft, and about the call with Mummy. I saw the evidence that you turned over to Lestrade and… I don’t know what to say. I’m utterly horrified.” He looked away. “And they didn’t believe you. I… I almost didn’t believe you.”

“Nothing needs to be said,” Mycroft said and shrugged. “At this point, it’s the other victims that should be helped.”

“Your parents kept putting him in harm’s way under the guise of helping him, of making things seem normal,” James said. “I spent some time with Gerald that day. Don’t ask; I have my ways and I’m good. He was sadistic about his conquests and he enjoyed the destruction he wrought. Repulsive. He savored the way that he tore families apart. Didn’t even bother to hide it or feel any remorse. He knew how to manipulate the adults so that he could get to the children freely.”

“I freely admit,” Sherlock said, “That I struggle with that. I struggle seeing Mummy and Father as other than perfect parents even though I saw the proof. It’s unfathomable how they could not believe their child or see the harm that was being done.”

“They hid from the truth that was right in front of them,” James said and hugged Mycroft. “It’s so much easier to hide or blame a child than to deal with that sort of evil. No one wants to face it for a multitude of reasons. And with every delusion, he would dig his claws in even deeper.”

Sherlock looked away. “I actually sensed that something was wrong,” He said quietly and his voice was filled with sadness. “I sensed that something was wrong and didn’t know how to interpret what should have been obvious. I was jealous of the attention that you got from him and our parents. It made me angry because I always felt ignored. I resented you for it.” Mycroft cringed and curled in against James. “I came close to hating you and everything you did for me later.”

“You were a child,” James said. “Your reactions are perfectly normal and you, neither of you, got understanding or help from your parents. I might be convinced to fix things with them if you want.” 

“That won’t be necessary,” Mycroft whispered. “I don’t know, exactly, what I want to do about them or what the best course of action is but I do know that I don’t want to make a rash decision or one tainted by the past.” James kissed him tenderly.

“Stop that!” Sherlock snapped. “It’s still disgusting.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Then I will endeavor to continue in perpetuity,” he teased but then his expression became serious and sad once more. “I know that I frequently didn’t, and still don’t, express myself well but I only meant to protect you, not stifle you.”

“I realize that now and I’m grateful for what you did,” Sherlock said. “I am horrified at what Gerald did to you and I’m appalled that our parents essentially allowed it”. Mycroft smiled and lowered his head to James’s shoulder.

“I offered Lestrade my assistance,” Sherlock continued. “But I wanted to hear _you_. I want to hear what happened to you in your words. I want to know how many times you bore what he would have-” Sherlock sighed. “What he would have done to me.”

Mycroft felt tears well in his eyes and was grateful when James scooted into his lap again. “It’ll be good for you to talk to Sherl,” James said. “For all his countless and unending flaws…” He turned to smirk at Sherlock. “He does love you very much and the fact that he’s here means everything.” Mycroft smiled and kissed his lips. Holding him, James gently wiped his eyes and Mycroft felt all the tension that he was holding evaporate.

“There’s so much we need to talk about,” Sherlock said. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“You have time,” James said while cuddling into Mycroft.

“I said stop that,” Sherlock grumbled. “Leave my brother alone.”

Jim stuck his tongue out at Sherlock. “I’m not stealing your brother,” he said. “He’s always going to be _your_ pain-in-the-arse, overprotective, know-it-all, controlling, older brother. I don’t have any intention of taking _that_ away from you. I don’t expect you to like me, Sherlock, and I’m not certain that I’ve forgiven you for throwing me to him, but I’m not a threat to you or your relationship with him.” Sherlock glared at him.

“Perhaps I should make more tea,” Mycroft suggested.

“Actually,” Jim said. “How about I head back to my place, pack some clothes and my consulting bookkeeper laptop, and we’ll pick up the fixings for a spectacular dinner for the four of us? You and Sherlock need to talk and we’ll be back in a few hours.” 

Mycroft nodded. “You _are_ coming back?” he asked.

“Nothing, not even Sherlock, could keep me away,” James teased but his eyes were crinkled with joy. Sherlock snorted.

“I need you in my life,” Mycroft whispered. The softness he saw in James’s smile melted Mycroft’s heart. 

“I want you in mine,” James said and kissed him tenderly.

 _The End_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be short epilogue after this even though the story is essentially done.


	19. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Viktor attend another embassy ball. Sebastian and Sherlock tag along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every person who has suffered abuse has different needs and a different road to healing. What you read here should not be used as a standard for judgment against anyone. 
> 
> Recommended listening music: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmCnQDUSO4I>
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has followed Mycroft and Jim's journey. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Epilogue: A Waltz for Mycroft**

Carrying two drinks, Sebastian pulled his chair out with his foot and then sat down before placing one of the glasses in front of Sherlock, who eyed him skeptically. “What is that?” Sherlock asked, annoyance seeping into his voice.

“A drink,” Seb replied and smiled smugly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing with exasperation. “Obviously, but we shouldn’t be drinking.” He did pick up the stir stick that had two cherries impaled on it and started swirling them.

“One or two… or four won’t kill us,” Sebastian countered and then shifted his voice to a perfect imitation of Jim Moriarty. “Viktor is a bookkeeper who does _not_ need a bodyguard. It would look strange and someone would notice.”

Sherlock’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he imitated Mycroft. “It’s a secure embassy party, Sherlock. Perfectly safe and nothing to fret over.” Both chuckled.

“Now that you’ve said that,” Seb grumbled playfully. “ _Something_ is definitely going to happen.” He glanced in the direction of Jim and Mycroft’s table. “I think shit follows those two like a bloodhound following scent.”

“Agreed, and Mycroft complains about _me_ ,” Sherlock said and nodded while sucking one of the cherries in his mouth. “What is it?”

“Sex on the beach,” Sebastian said. Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “I can hope, can’t I?” 

For the past three months, Sherlock had been assisting MI5 during Mycroft’s half-year sabbatical. Seb served as his bodyguard and assistant, much as John Watson had and still did when he had time. It was obvious that Sherlock missed the freedom of being a consulting detective and chafed at the routine and tediousness of government work but Sebastian found it admirable that he still did it almost every day. _For his brother_.

Both Mycroft and Sherlock had been disowned by the Holmes family after Gerald’s doings had come to light and the lawsuits had started coming in. While their immediate branch of the family was not directly involved, they had all banded together to blame Mycroft and subsequently Sherlock for defending and supporting his brother.

Mycroft had taken it much harder than Sherlock and that had been the final straw in pushing him to take some time off. Knowing that Sherlock would be assisting in covering his responsibilities had reassured Mycroft. Jim’s support and seemingly unending barrage of exquisite plots to murder them all, family and government alike, soothed Mycroft while helping him heal. Jim had an uncanny ability to see through all the smoke, mirrors, and stories to get to the heart of a matter.

Sebastian found that he enjoyed the work. Sherlock was just as brilliant as Jim, albeit in different ways, and the cases that involved him were interesting and frequently dangerous. A bonus. Plus as far as Seb was concerned, Sherlock was one of the most gorgeous men in London, and, quite possibly, the most oblivious when it came to certain things. He supposed that was probably for the best since he was frequently sleeping with Mycroft and Jim and still having sex with Jim even though the other two were an official couple.

“I can’t stop you, I suppose,” Sherlock said flatly. “But on occasion you’ve proven yourself of superior intellect to the common goldfish, as Mycroft puts it, so I rather expect _better_ from you.”

“And what does that say about _you_ ,” Sebastian retorted cheekily. Sherlock rolled his eyes once more and that made Sebastian chuckle. He enjoyed needling the younger Holmes.

Sherlock took a sip of the drink and nodded with approval. “It could have been worse,” he noted.

“Like the time I got everyone a blow pop martini?”

“Yes, that. Disgusting. Repulsive.”

“You secretly loved it.”

“No,” Sherlock said curtly but then looked in the direction of Mycroft and Jim. “How have things been this past week?”

“Not bad,” Sebastian replied. “Still no panic attacks from Mycroft.” 

“That’s good,” Sherlock said while sipping his drink.

After Jim had moved in, Mycroft had had three panic attacks in the first two weeks. One was related to Moriarty but the other two were centered on the abuse and his family’s response to it. With both Jim and Sebastian’s support, the panic attacks had started to ease and Mycroft hadn’t had one in the past month. He was still anxious and triggered easily but the severity was decreasing. 

“Jim had a bad one three nights ago,” Sebastian added. Jim continued to refuse help from anyone. Much to Sebastian and Mycroft’s frustration, he insisted that everything was fine if not better. He claimed to not remember any nightmares even though Seb and Mycroft saw him tossing and turning, crying out, waking up disoriented and shivering, and often reacting poorly to Mycroft until he’d recovered.

Sebastian knew that it was a combination of Jim’s coping mechanisms, simply being cavalier as he always was, and not wanting to burden Mycroft even though Mycroft was willing to assist in any way that he could.

“Is he showing _any_ signs of improvement?” Sherlock asked. While he and Jim weren’t close, their relationship was slowly getting better and had reached the point where Sunday lunch wasn’t an absolute disaster every time.

Sebastian shrugged and, once again, looked at Jim and Mycroft’s table. “Not really. Minimally, maybe,” he said. “I think helping Mycroft gives him something to focus on and living with Mycroft is starting to change his subconscious perspective of Mycroft and what happened on a deeper level. But he’s Jim and it’s going to take time…”

*~*~*

Rising to his feet, Mycroft offered James his hand. “May I have this dance, Mr. Chelyadnin?” he asked shyly.

James took his hand and also rose. “{It would be my honor,}” he replied in his Russian, laced with hints of Moscow, East-central Russia, and Kiev, that Mycroft utterly adored. After many long discussions they had decided that James would publicly become Viktor. They had spent the last few months solidifying Viktor’s identity so that it could withstand the scrutiny of the British government. When Mycroft looked at him he no longer saw _Moriarty_ but the complex, brilliantly unique person that he’d come to love and that somehow loved and cared for him. 

Mycroft pulled James close and led him to the dance floor. “I’ve been dreaming of another waltz at a grand party or ball since our first one.”

“{I promise, maybe, not to kidnap you at knifepoint this time,}” James said, smirking. 

“I don’t think I’d mind, this time,” Mycroft whispered.

“{You are _asking_ for trouble, Mika,}” James said and then laughed as they reached an empty space on the dance floor. 

“You _are_ trouble,” Mycroft said. James took him in his arms and a few moments later the music started. It was Dmitri Shostakovich’s  Waltz No. 2. “One of my favorites,” he murmured as they started dancing.

“In spite of or because of the saxophone solo?” Jim asked teasingly.

“Both,” Mycroft quipped back playfully. He’d wanted another waltz with Viktor for so long that it now seemed like a surreal dream coming true and he was floating on the dance floor not merely stepping on it. He kissed James’s lips gently. “Nothing but trouble, but I don’t want anyone but you.”

“{I love you, Mika,}” James whispered.

Mycroft felt warmth suffuse his heart and it truly felt as though he had finally reached home. “The old Mycroft Holmes would have scoffed at that notion,” he said and smiled tenderly. “This Mycroft will instead quote Doyle and insist that you are my heart, my life, my one and only thought.” He kissed James. “And I love you.”


End file.
